


Anyway, Here's Wonderwall

by ALittleWhitLost



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: AU, Basement trio family, LexVex, M/M, Sitcom AU, Zemyx - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-06 20:48:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5430308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALittleWhitLost/pseuds/ALittleWhitLost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zexion’s life was not a lie.  In retrospect, it was a bit of an illusion though.  With his mind a maze of steel traps and his world built of a patchwork of strange people, there’s a lot to see in that flash of blinding light!  -AU.  Zemyx, LexVex, and just a smidgen of AkuRoku if you’re paitent.  Also featuring young!Zexion and the basement trio family!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chronological Order is for Noobs

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Afraid not, though it would be pretty cool! I'd probably not be any better at getting KH3 out in a timely manner than the current powers that be though, so. Meh. Also, I claim no ownership towards any music, foods, or other pop-referenced materials therein either.
> 
> Happy birthday to me/ I just turned twenty-three/ god I'm getting so ol-olllld/ and I've been in this fandom a million years. *jazzhands*
> 
> Hello and welcome! This is the first of what I'm affectionately calling Lost Puppy productions- that is to say, it's something of a collab between myself and my very good friend, Pup. (You can thank her for Vexen. Vexen, why.) We plotted it together (mostly way too late at night), set up the characters together, and arranged/brainstormed some of the dialogue as a team too. Any artwork will typically be drawn by her, and the physical writing is mine!
> 
> Finally, this chapter is a little funky. I promise most of the story is NOT written in the present-tense. So give us a chance, yes? Also, it's an awfully short chapter by my standards, so I'll put up the next one in a couple of days probably. (Also also, this is my first thing posted to this newfangled site and I think its coding might be smarter than me...)
> 
> Edit: The new and delightful cover art was provided by the equally delightful MarleePup! <3

 

* * *

 

Thin fingers pull open the blinds, letting in the first orange and crimson light of the early morning, spilling it over clean furniture and discarded clothes. It feels warm through the pane, but the melting ice in patches two stories below tell a different story. Mid December. The very heart of the winter season. Colored grey in the city, but serene still somehow in the earliest of the morning light. The man breathes easily, watching the day creep nearer, the sun peeking between skyscrapers and inching shadows across a muddy garden below. Last night had been long, if enjoyable enough, and the day to come longer still, but there is an undeniable happy buzz floating about in the hotel room.

There is singing coming from the bathroom, hot water and steam waking the other occupant enough that his voice comes out bold and clear through the thin door, smooth as water over river stones and so perfectly on pitch it’s almost eerie. He harmonizes with himself, turning off the tap and no doubt rubbing white towels over tanned flesh.

“-Got to tell yourself things that _aren’t true_. You’ve got to tell yourself you can do- you can do-”

A smile pulls at pale lips, facing the infant sun as keen ears listen and a keener nose picks up a strange scent, something like lavender floating on the breeze, blown over ocean seas and honeysuckle in some place that feels like early spring. Strange, but not at all unpleasant, and more importantly… it’s theirs. Two separate things twisted and melded together into one. Something stronger and brighter and deeper than either thing had been or could have become alone.

“-My nooks- so into your looks! Bet you’re probably _crazy_ \- bet I’m being mowed! Bet you’re probably _perfect_ for me- bet you’re made of _gold_!” The door swings open with great abandon, releasing humid but sweet-smelling air into the cool room. Out prances the owner of the voice, angular hips swinging in polka-dotted boxers and otherwise bare, towel left on a silver doorknob and hair the color of sand dripping and just _everywhere_. The man at the window turns, smiles, and does not deny touch when the other draws near- even though the grasp of warm hands and popping of those hips betray his intentions as easily as if he had spoken them.

Demyx is still singing, tugging his partner along now into a sort of dance, fingers linking with fingers on one side, hand placed easily on a hip on the other. He leans in close, grinning a grin which smells of peppermint toothpaste and looks just a _little_ devilish, guiding his partner in a tight circle.

“I think I want to tell you- everything. I think I want to give it _all tonight_ …”

Zexion has gotten used to this, and despite his many protests, he may not be _quite_ the terrible dancer he’d once been. So much is different, now. Demyx bounces them both through at least ten _do do dododo_ ’s, slowly creeping their bodies closer and closer together until his lips ghost lyrics against Zexion’s left ear, hips to hips, chest to bare chest, swaying as fluidly and organically as the taller seems to do everything he does. Hands shift into something that is still dancing but almost more a hug, and when fingernails scrape up a neck and into damp locks Demyx shivers and begins to more purr than sing, tempo easing to something almost sleepy.

“I think I wanna tell you everything… I wonder what you’re doing for the rest of your life…”

Zexion tilts his head, eyelids fluttering closed as lips press gentle, tender kisses in the sensitive place just between the underside of his ear and the beginning of hair. He’s still humming the tune, still moving them a little, but not to the degree that he was before. Zexion’s fingers flex against his scalp as the other hand chases trickles of water over a shoulder and arm, to a flat chest, up over discolorations and freckles, a faded tattoo, and then tracing the thin white scar etched into his skin, there just below his collarbone.

“Hm.” The shorter says at last, after several minutes of just breathing and enjoying one another close, rememorizing already familiar scents and sensations, “You should sing your own songs.” Demyx chuckles against his skin and pulls back, smiling.

“But that one’s just so _catchy_! It’s been stuck in my head for _days_.” He’s whisks himself away not a second later, digging around for clean clothes to cover his lanky frame, tugging up his boxers in the back as an afterthought. Zexion watches him, head tilted to one side, and can’t help but think… _Some things never change_. “Besides!” Demyx continues easily, feeling about on his hands and knees now under the unmade bed for misplaced socks, “I’ve got to give you some good material for that memoir you keep threatening to write!”

Zexion laughs and shakes his head, moving at last away from the window to begin repacking their bags. Somehow their things just always seem to spread out all over creation, even when they’re only in a place for a single night. Try as he might to consolidate and control the madness, socks and toothbrushes and the occasional cellphone regularly disappear on the road.

“Won’t you be surprised when it’s published?” He asks smoothly, tugging on the collar of a shirt with intentions to pop the wrinkles out of it.

“Not at all! And the girls will flock right to the romance-shelves to buy it all up- you closet-squishy, you.” There is fondness in the teasing, but Zexion still shoots him a glare as he breezes passed and into the bathroom.

“It’s prudent for a celebrity such as yourself to be more _concerned_ about the inevitable tell-all.” He advises. Just as he is closing the door between them he hears the laughing response.

“Nah- you’re too smart to destroy your own primary income!”

There is a lightness within him as he washes and conditions his hair, midnight-dark from the water and slickened fully off of his forehead in a way which is still a less common look for him than the heavy curtain covering much of his face that he was once known for. Eyes gaze sightlessly at the tiles before them as the muted sounds of singing resume somewhere behind him.

Just about a year since they were last back home, but around ten since Zexion last lived at home. That long, really? Seemed like it was yesterday sometimes, but at others… how a world could _change_ in ten years. Maybe not the world as a whole, that physical, tangible one, in all its coldness and brutality and hate. But his world, and Demyx’s world… the worlds belonging only to Lexaeus and Vexen, to Axel… those tiny microcosms within all of their bruised little hearts. If he looks back on himself in high school- or even on the day of the graduation Demyx didn’t think he’d make- it’s hard to imagine himself believing that his path could take him here.

It seems a dream, at times.

“Axel called,” Demyx is saying soon after, while Zexion does up the buttons along the front of his shirt and tugs at the pestering wrinkles set into his collar again. Long musician’s fingers are styling half-dry hair, up at the top and swished to one side just slightly- a more mature version of that strange thing he’d done to himself in school. “He wants to meet up tonight for drinks, when we get into town.”

“Mm.” Zexion rolls his shoulders and takes his turn with the comb, smoothing out freshly washed bangs across his forehead and behind the pierced ear; for now well displaying both expressive eyes for the world to see. “That’s all fine and good, but Vexen will have an impressive tantrum if we don’t stay for dinner with them, first.” Demyx makes a face into the mirror, something like shock and appall.

“Oh please- _even I_ don’t love Axel enough to skip taco night!” He laughs, a sound like wind chimes clinking together, and Zexion chuckles too. Indigo eyes admire them both in the wide bathroom mirror, such as they are. Tall and not as much. Sunny golden tones, and the nighttime sky. Turquoise and indigo. Spontaneous and calculating. Two humans, a bit battered but still standing. He feels sometimes as though there’s a mirror between them, as much as before them. So very different, and somehow neither has yet to meet a person who is more alike. The thought is pleasing.

Demyx spreads out on the floor, checking under pieces of furniture for misplaced items while Zexion winds up the cords to phone chargers and zips closed bags. They have breakfast in the attached café, coffee and a couple of apple fritters and a bowl of sliced melon. They check out at a reasonable hour. The walk to the parking garage is chilly and unpleasant, but the car warms well with two bodies inside and a carefully-maintained engine purring. Demyx creeps to the side, breath ghosting again against Zexion’s neck. He can all but feel the smile, even as he reaches to tuck stray hair back behind his ear.

“Can I help you-?” He asks lightly, rubbing feeling back into his fingers. Demyx huffs out a laugh and reaches, turning him with a hand on a cheek. Lips touch, chaste but slow and warm, and two mouths smile into it. Zexion is the one to pull away, though reluctantly, just to click his seatbelt and shift the car into drive. Demyx sighs and shifts back into the passenger seat properly, settling in.

“Eh. You _sure_ we can’t take a little _downtime_ before the drive?” He asks as he adjusts the seatbelt strap across his chest. Zexion glances back at him, thin eyebrow quirking.

“Would _you_ like to explain exactly why we’re late?” Demyx grimaces at what is doubtlessly the thought of Vexen, ironically frilled apron and all, ranting and raving like the lunatic he absolutely is about how _unsanitary_ it is to do _such things_ in a _car_ , and how irresponsible it is to keep one’s family waiting at _Christmastime_ , and god-knows what else. There is no crossing that man and maintaining a comfortable, complaint-free evening, and both present know it well. Defeated, the blond turns to the radio, tampering with the settings until some song he likes is playing at a reasonably loud level. Zexion creeps their vehicle out of the parking garage and onto the street.

The scents of the city and sounds of some rock-and-roll something fill their senses well until they hit the freeway, speeding along with traffic in a vaguely westward direction. Hollow Bastion isn’t too far now- just a few more hours. Once they’re well enough on their way, Demyx sends a text to let the family know. Zexion’s head is bobbing slightly in tune to the music, eyes on the road while the man beside him taps away on the screen of his phone, snickering after a time.

“Y’know…” He muses, “I always expected Lex to get more talkative after discovering texting… what with getting to write it out instead of going to all that vocal trouble… but if anything he’s even _worse_ this way!” Zexion shakes his head fondly.

“What does he say?”

“Don’t get lost or the cookies will be gone.” They share a snicker, which is cut short abruptly by the yelp when the phone vibrates again in Demyx’s lap. He leans back, tapping to check it, and then snorts.

“Axel’s already planned some crazy adventure.” He informs. “ _Seventh Heaven_ and _No Name_ and I guess there’s some kind of something going on Saturday at the crystal fissure…” His phone buzzes again and he takes a minute to read. “Everyone’s going to be there, he says, and we’re losers if we don’t go. I think I miss the sleep-all-day-Axel of yore.”

“Who’s _everyone_?” Zexion wonders aloud.

“Beats me! But visiting a couple old haunts is good by me, whatever else we do. I owe Tifa a visit anyway, now that things’re finally working out.” He taps out a reply to their friend. “And Ax is really excited, so…”

“Don’t let him bully you into doing shots.” The shorter male instructs, changing to the fast lane to get out from behind a heavy truck. “Tequila makes you into a slut, and he knows it.” Demyx groans and hides his face in his hands but laughs and does not deny. A song he loves comes on the radio a moment later and he all but leaps forward, cranking the volume and singing along- all air guitar and drum solo across the dash and absolutely brighter and more vivid than the sun climbing the sky behind them. More beautiful to his partner now than even the hopeful little bits of blue sky peeking out from between heavy gray clouds on the horizon. Zexion’s thumbs tap across the wheel, almost as familiar with this particular tune as he is the sound of his own voice.

Demyx sings and laughs, answers messages and keeps Zexion up to date on conversations being had. Zexion drives and commentates, and even sings along a time or two. They drive through patches of sun and misty rain, winding their way ever closer to home.

It’s around midday when it happens.

Someone in the other lane hits a patch of ice and slides, spinning dangerously as the driver overcorrects. Demyx gasps and Zexion swerves, darting them out of the way and towards the left- but he, too, overcorrects with a jerk when tires slip off of concrete and sink into muddy earth. Something collides with something else. There is a twist, a vertigo-inducing leap, a scream.

The screech of collapsing metal and crunch of a heavy landing. Glass rains from the sky. Zexion’s mind is disoriented and his olfactory sense is flooded now with the scents of gasoline and ice… blood, and tears. He feels shock, followed quickly by pain; sharp and bold and all-consuming, surging through his body with such force that he can’t ascertain even the cause. He feels too hot and too cold all in one. Something wet and sticky trails down his face.

His eyes force open unseeing, fractured sight desperate to make sense of what surrounds him. His stomach heaves, he gasps for a breath, and the world begins to close in around him. Sounds waver in and out, like bobbing just beneath the surface of some imaginary lake, inaudible seconds before blaringly loud- but never discernable to his mind. He fights, reaches blindly to his right- or is he even moving at all? His fingers have become too numb to tell, or perhaps his brain has become too sluggish. The world shifts dramatically on its axis. The final pinprick of light in the tunnel closes over him, and the battle for consciousness is lost.

 

* * *

 

_This is not the end._


	2. The Stuff Questionable Decisions are Made Of

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Merry (early) Christmas! I say this now because we are less than a week away and I will probably not update again before that time passes… mostly because I am unlikely to have any time to write before the holiday and I’d rather not burn through all of my buffer bits this early on. This chapter begins what Pup and I consider to be the actual story. So…. Woosah!

* * *

Dingy rain water ran through cracked gutters beside the sidewalk down which a mountain of a man walked. He passed between patches of light and shadow made by streetlights flickering on and the occasional passing car, pale eyes peeled for details of his surroundings in the fading evening light. He turned a corner, walked two city blocks, and turned again. A deserted park stood between him and the lit building, dirt with patches of grass sticking up like lone soldiers on a day-old battlefield, amongst the rusted playground equipment. 

Across the way was a small white building, square and unassuming, with a patchwork roof, brightly lit windows, and a propped-open double door. The man stopped, watching people weave in and out through the opening, carrying things or nothing, peeking up at the gradually darkening sky and frowning at the clouds which promised more rain in the night. He checked the slip in one monstrous hand, nodded to himself, and set off determinedly, around the park and up the stairs.

Inside, there was much chatter and the smell of food, wooden pews pushed aside to allow room for folding tables and a few plastic chairs. The overhead lights were steady, illuminating the stained-glass window on the back wall and the cross set gently just before it. The residents looked at him no less suspiciously here than they did on the streets, so he kept to himself, looking instead for one of the volunteers, someone who would- with luck- point him in the right direction.

He found her with a covered pot of something hot, brown hair pulled back in a rose colored bow, dress of the same color and jacket protected by a not-quite-white apron. The woman was young, maybe twenty, and filled to the brim with light- speaking in gentle tones to the children and the hungry, laughing easily at this comment or that and seeming as comfortable around the downtrodden as she might be in a meadow filled with flowers. The man cleared his throat, gaining her attention, and her smile turned polite but uncertain when emerald eyes met dusty blue. 

“Can I help you?”

“Yes.” He answered in a gruff, thunderous voice he couldn’t contain, even speaking at low levels as he was. “I’m with the Radiant Garden SCU. I have some questions, if I may. I’m looking for a…” He checked his note. “Miss Aerith Gainsborough?”

“That’s me.” She offered hesitantly, studying him. He gave her a short smile.

“Do you have a moment?”

The woman’s eyebrows furrowed, but she nodded and gestured to the side, dodging easily around bodies and leading him down a hallway, passed the simple white kitchen and into a room at the back. She let them both inside, flicking on a light, and gave him an expectant smile. “How can I help you?”

From an interior coat pocket came a leather-bound badge and identification, which he showed to her and allowed her to take from him, to read carefully. He waited for it to be handed back before speaking.

“My name is Detective Lexaeus Kando. I’m here about the abductions.” He explained, somewhat unnecessarily.

“Detective,” Miss Gainsborough said cautiously, turning to close the door and ensure their privacy. “If you’re with the force, then… you work with Dr. Prince?” He nodded, and she did also. “Vexen’s a friend of mine from the university. It’s nice to meet you… but I’m afraid you may have a made a wasted trip.” Heavy eyebrows furrowed, at which the woman sighed and shook her head. “I haven’t seen anything like the news report asked to look for, and I haven’t heard any promising rumors either.”

The detective’s hard face twitched into something resembling a smile, awkward on the hard lines and angles, but not insincere. “That’s alright. Really, I’d just like to talk to some civilians- anyone who might know anything.” 

The soft-faced woman hardened, pink lips pressing into a fine line which didn’t suit her at all. “I can’t help you with that.” She said firmly. When Lexaeus frowned, she sighed and shook her head, glancing around them. “These people… they look at you and all they see is a cop- and there’s a long-standing tradition for not trusting the police in this area.” She raised a dainty hand, stopping any protest before it could begin. “I grew up in a place just like this. Seems you don’t know what it’s like. These people, they… they’ve never known hope or love that didn’t come side-by-side with a fist or a hefty price. Help doesn’t often mean the same thing to them as it does to you and me. It’s like… never having seen the sky. Your world is dark, and you know there’s a light out there somewhere, because someone told you it’s there… but the vastness of it terrifies, and descriptions you’ve heard… they don’t seem real.”

They stared one another down for a long, tense moment, but then the detective sighed and rubbed a blocky hand through short-clipped ginger curls. “I mean no harm.”

“I know that.” Miss Gainsborough yielded. “But it’s just… We do good work here, detective. Important work. Their trust was hard-earned, and I’m sorry… but I can’t afford the risk to lose it now. Even for a cause like this. If they won’t let us help them, they have _no one_.”

“I’m trying to help them, too.” Lexaeus answered solemnly. Aerith’s smile was small, but kind.

“I know that, too. But you’ll be hard pressed to make them believe it, and I can’t vouch for a cop or I’ll lose credibility. I am sorry. Vexen _is_ a friend of mine, and I would help if I could…” The door creaked open, causing the woman to startle and the man to twist, face hard. Both, however, softened at the sight that met them.

Standing in the doorway was a tiny child, frail and thin and distantly ill looking, destitute in every measure of the word, from the rat’s nest of hair on his head to the oversized sweatshirt and barely-together sneakers. Overgrown bangs fell limply into large, round eyes, which were focused unblinkingly on the giant. Said giant swallowed. Miss Gainsborough, however, burst into action.

“Oh! I didn’t know you were here today, darling. What’re you doing here in the back? Did you follow us?” Largely ignoring the man, she crossed the space between her and the boy, drawing near but not-quite touching, seeming accustomed to the way he retreated slightly at the movement. Thin arms folded themselves tightly across a narrow chest. Lexaeus imagined the child to be around six or seven, and his heart ached in a way he wondered if Aerith felt as well.

The boy didn’t speak, but his gaze flicked to hers and he nodded once. Aerith nodded too and placed a hand very slowly, very carefully on his nearer shoulder. He twitched, but didn’t pull away from her.

“Have you eaten? There’s food in the hall. The soup should still be hot.” He shook his head, frowned, and resumed staring at the detective unblinkingly. Lexaeus stared back into a vivid indigo colored set of eyes, disconcerted. There was something inside those eyes… something which made it difficult to meet them and to look anywhere else at the same time. Shallowly, an emptiness, like everything of value had been bled out of him until not but a husk of a soul and a mind remained; but deeper was a disquieting reading intelligence. As he stared, he felt as if the boy was staring not at him, but into him, _through_ him, into his mind and his motives and it was like every little movement was a piece of a puzzle and in another moment the boy would have known _everything_. Lexaeus’ gaze flicked away, between the woman and the boy, uncomfortable.

“The cop.” The boy said quietly, voice rasping and small, but tone full of something Lexaeus couldn’t quite name. The child was tiny, and yet that knowledgeable _something_ in his gaze was impossible to ignore. Almost like an adult, one who’d seen much and bottled it all up inside those large round eyes.

“I’m a detective.” He answered honestly, meeting again and holding that perplexing gaze. “I’m looking into a string of abductions in the area.” Aerith shifted uneasily, but the boy kept quite still, measuring Lexaeus under his gaze.

“…I saw something.”

Both adults in the room tensed, surprised in equal measure, but the child merely blinked and glanced between them. The detective took a moment to breathe, exchanged a glance with Aerith (who he was certain would threaten him if she could do so telepathically- from the hard line her mouth had become and the furrow of her brow) and then turned to pull two spare chairs from their stack, gesturing to one for the boy and settling down across from him.

“Please. Anything will help.”

Aerith guided the child to the seat, upon which his toes barely brushed the floor, and he soon resumed his staring match with the man. The woman, clearly perplexed, shut the door for them once more and floated just beside the child’s chair, fidgeting. Lexaeus brought out a small pad of paper and a pen, prepared to take notes.

“I’m Lexaeus. What’s your name?”

The boy stiffened, outwardly concerned for the first time, gaze flicking to the notepad and then to his hands, wringing themselves in his lap. He clenched his jaw and said nothing. Aerith, once more, burst into action.

“We don’t use names here, unless the person wants to.” She explained quickly. “Not everyone wants to be known. I have to ask you to respect that.” Her green eyes were hard when Lexaeus met them, so he sighed and conceded, making a mental note to inquire about that, later.

“I won’t testify or anything, but I’ll tell you what I saw.” The child muttered once he was sure the more personal line of questioning had been dropped. Lexaeus couldn’t help but be surprised by his vocabulary and careful pronunciation, but couldn’t help but be the slightest bit glad for it. A boy that smart could be a valuable resource for the investigation, no matter how tiny he was. Lexaeus nodded and waited patiently. The boy licked chapped lips and nodded too, just once, almost to himself. “The girl…” He began quietly.

“Naminé Martin?” Lexaeus asked gingerly. The child nodded.

“I knew her.” He explained simply. “She was selling stuff she made, out in the big park, the one near the train station. She started making good money- but I don’t think she was mugged.” Lexaeus shook his head in agreement, small eyes soft. This child didn’t need to hear the facts, but they knew a much darker and more disgusting motivation lay behind this killer. “I saw her get in a car. Tuesday night, late. I never saw the man before, but the car was too nice for the west end.” His voice strained, as if he didn’t use it often, and he hadn’t met the detective’s gaze once since he began to speak, but his words were measured, careful, well-enunciated.

“Do you know what kind?”

He shook his head, frowning. “I don’t… know cars.” He admitted, somewhat grudgingly. “But it was black or dark blue, and very clean. Four doors, and a trunk… and sort of… circular headlights.” The detective was sure to write all of this down, nodding. Aerith remained still and silent, watching the conversation.

“Did it seem odd, the exchange?” The boy nodded.

“She’s shy. She didn’t go out with just anyone. And he kept looking around, like he didn’t want someone important to see. And she…” Thin eyebrows furrowed and the boy curled in on himself, just a little. Lexaeus waited patiently, watching him. Aerith’s hand touched the child’s shoulder. He twitched. “…Her things were gone.” Silence prevailed for long moments, until Aerith’s soft voice filled it again, though somewhat hollowly.

“It would be… more than strange for one of these kids to be seen anywhere without everything they own.” She explained shakily, fingers squeezing the child’s shoulder gently. “They keep it all close. I know some who won’t take their backpacks off in front of people, even to sit down and eat.”

Lexaeus’ pen stalled, and he studied the boy more closely, his miniature hands fisted into the fabric of his sweatshirt, his pale cheeks and bluish hair. The striking eyes which were framed by black eyelashes and the trademark purple shadows brought on by too little sleep. The longer he looked, the more his chest ached. How was he even alive?

“Thank you.” He murmured in a rumble, after a while. “This is important. It’ll help us catch the man who did it.” The boy nodded, and apparently had nothing else to say, because before another moment had passed, he had scurried from the chair and out the door, Aerith just at his heels but stalling in the doorway, to watch him retreat down the hall. Then, she sighed sadly and met the man’s gaze.

“That was… a surprise.” She admitted with a small smile. Lexaeus returned the gesture.

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know him well. I don’t even know his name.” She admitted, shifting to lean against the wooden doorframe. “That’s the most I’ve ever heard him speak, honestly… but he’s here once every week or two, since a couple of months ago. I suspect he’s one of the boy’s home kids.” The detective frowned.

“Then what’s he doing out like this?”

“Have you ever been there?” When he shook his head, the woman rubbed hers tiredly. “It’s famously overcrowded and… less than ideal as far as living conditions go. The matron is a witch, and their needs aren’t met sufficiently, as far as I’m concerned. Whenever a boy doesn’t want to tell me about himself, I wonder if he’s a runaway from there. If you don’t know his name, you can’t very well tattle and get him dragged back- or, so they would think.”

“That’s… no way to live.” Lexaeus murmured grimly, ashamed in his ignorance. 

“No kidding.” Aerith shook her head as her gaze trailed back down the hallway. “…I hope you catch that monster, detective.”

“We’ll do everything we can.” It wasn’t the best of assurances, but he was young too, new to this position… and even he knew that one should never promise more than they are certain they can fulfill. This suspect was as shifty and difficult to grasp as smoke. There would only be so much anyone could do, really. “Is there anyone else I might talk to?”

Miss Gainsborough let out a little breath and crossed her arms. “I haven’t changed my mind, you know. You can ask around, but I can’t help you do it. Everyone’s very upset about Naminé- and Garnet too. We want him brought to justice, but…” She shrugged helplessly. Lexaeus nodded and pocketed the notepad.

“I understand.” Frustrated a bit, certainly, but he couldn’t blame her. She could only do what she thought was right. Chances of anyone else being as willing to chat with him as the child had been were slim to none, and he’d expected as much without the help of someone like Aerith, but he would try nonetheless. Anything was better than nothing, after all.

* * *

It was over a week later when he crossed paths with the boy again.

Lexaeus had stepped out into another drearily rainy evening, the trademark weather of late autumn in Hollow Bastion, off of the subway and into the quickly emptying streets of the central district. Nine-to-fivers and other day-workers like him were shuffling to their various homes, oblivious to the grueling weeks of work his task force had finally, finally brought to a close. It should have left a good feeling in his chest, but instead there was only something hollow there. Some sort of energy left without proper channels through which to expunge it, mixed with a blankness that could only be birthed from the exact combination of exhaustion and bittersweet triumph. A killer was behind bars, with a solid case built up the likes of which were expected to keep him there, but those three young girls were still dead and there was nothing that could change that.

Lexaeus sighed and rubbed tired eyes as he turned a corner, pausing to wait for the crosswalk light to flash from red to white, allowing safe passage for foot traffic. He cleared his throat, thought of stopping somewhere for something quick and easy to eat, as his gaze strayed over other bodies in the drizzle and his surroundings. Then he saw him.

The boy was curled in on himself under the edge of an overhang, partially-obscured eyes watching the pattern of the rain on the pavement blandly, legs tucked into the body of his oversized sweatshirt, cuffs folded over and inwards around curled fingers. He looked much the same as before. The same clothes, the same unwashed hair, tiny figure… It wasn’t until the crosswalk signal beeped that the detective realized he’d been staring so long. Having to wait another several minutes for the next chance to cross, he decided instead to detour, towards the child. It was… disturbing, seeing a boy so small alone in a place like this. Sure, Hollow Bastion was no Midgar, but that didn’t make it a safe place to be.

“Hello.” He rumbled simply. The boy startled out of his dazed contemplation, large eyes rising to the towering man standing before him, black umbrella in hand and coat buttoned neatly. His expression grew guarded. Lexaeus bent into a squat, balanced on the balls of his feet, closer to eye level with the child. He tried to ignore the way he shifted slightly, backwards and away, against the brick wall of the convenience store he’d chosen to squat beside. “Do you remember me? Lexaeus?” Pale lips pursed, and the child said nothing. 

His stare was unnerving in a way Lexaeus wouldn’t quite be able to describe if asked, but he worked hard to hold it. It was like staring into the dark places between stars on a clear night; impossible to guess what might lie beyond, holding so many possibilities all at once, but also shadows of the unknown. That hyper-intelligent, reading sensation was still there, setting Lexaeus’ hair on end, but as he continued to stare into that blue abyss, to hold the gaze in a way he hadn’t quite the last time, he saw something else… something more? Perhaps it was imagined, but he sensed something there. Fear, fragility, and the sort of anticipation one feels when they just _know_ something horrible is destined to happen but they don’t know exactly when, and there is nothing they can do to circumvent it. There were so many things he could have said, so many questions he might have liked answers to as he watched the child watch him.

“We caught the killer.” He said instead, as softly as his thunderous voice could manage. “The things you told me helped a lot. Thank you.” The boy hesitated, eyebrows furrowing as if he expected some kind of recant added onto the backend of the comment. When none came, he merely shrugged a little, glancing elsewhere, towards a puddle on the sidewalk which dripped steadily with fresh wetness. Lexaeus swallowed.

“What are you doing all the way out here?” He asked tentatively. “It’s a little far from the west end.” The boy prickled, jaw clenching, and refused both to meet the man’s gaze and to respond. 

Alright, so that wasn’t a good move. Lexaeus found himself unable to just leave the kid here, though. He was so small, and so destitute… and so _smart_. It was a waste, curled up on the concrete out here alone in the fading light, fading just like the day was- slow but steady and absolute, no doubt hungry and quite possibly sick. He could be more, couldn’t he? If somebody just _really_ cared about him for once in his life. The more Lexaeus watched him the more sure he felt. It was maybe, a bit, the guilt over the girls he couldn’t bring back from the dead, but there was more than that. Much like a stray kitten, he simply couldn’t abandon this child.

“I’ll be right back.” He said at last, standing and trudging into the convenience store. Once there, he bought a pair of warmed hot dogs and bottled sodas, a bag of chips and a small package of napkins. It occurred to him, distantly, that the boy might not still be there when he returned; that he might flee the moment Lexaeus was away for fear of authorities being called to collect him. The idea set an uncomfortable tightness in his chest, but to his surprise, the boy was exactly where he’d left him when he stepped back out into the rain. 

Lexaeus came to sit on the damp curb beside him, umbrella closed now and discarded to one side as he settled under the same overhang, plastic bag balanced on his knees. The boy shifted slightly, arms winding tightly around his folded legs and leaning away from the man a bit. Lexaeus didn’t press, merely set a paper-wrapped hotdog on those covered knees, cracked open the lime flavored soda before placing it carefully up against the little boy’s toes, and got to work at opening and eating his own dinner. Silence reigned supreme, but after a few moments of watching with hooded eyes, the child unwound himself enough to unwrap his meal and have a bite.

They ate in silence. Lexaeus had finished his hotdog and moved onto the bag of chips, which was propped up against the wall between himself and the child while he sipped from his bottle, by the time the boy’s eyes met his again. Again, they watched one another, measuring the other in silence, as people passed them by and the streets steadily swarmed and ebbed of homebound bodies. It was getting easier, little by little, Lexaeus realized. Meeting his eyes was starting to bother him less. Maybe the warm food was softening the boy’s spiked and poisoned outer walls, or maybe the detective was simply growing used to the sensation. Whatever the case, he held open the grocery bag for the child’s balled up trash when he finished, but didn’t stand to leave when he did. 

“What’s your name?” Lexaeus managed after some time of just staring, and like the trick that breaks the spell, the moment was over and the child was looking away again, jaw set and thin eyebrows furrowed, glaring at the concrete beneath his worn-out sneakers. Lexaeus watched him and waited. Moments ticked by and the sky leaked out a lighter drizzle of rain than before. The boy shivered and curled in tighter, making himself even smaller than he was already. Lexaeus waited.

Moments passed in tense quiet, the boy gripping his sweatshirt like a lifeline while the detective proved his mastery in the art of patience. For a while, he wondered if he would get a word out of him at all, or if he might scurry away again like he had the last time they spoke, off into some dark place and away never to be seen again. He set his drink down beside his knee, careful to keep his expression as blank as the boy’s had become. He waited.

“…Zexion.” The child rasped at last. He tucked his chin down into the collar of his sweatshirt, still curled up tightly and eyes focused again on the puddle a few paces from his miniature feet. Lexaeus let out a breath he’d hardly realized he was holding, and leaned against the wall.

“Zexion.” He repeated simply. “Well met.”

As if he’d been expecting something else, Zexion bit his lips and waited in silence for several minutes. Lexaeus, however, did nothing. The boy glanced up at him at last, uncertainly, and when he did the detective smiled. It was insane, probably, and absolutely on a whim and that wasn’t how these things were meant to work, but an idea had come to him in the time he’d sat on this dirty side street beside this boy… an idea he knew he couldn’t ignore.

“If you come back here tomorrow at the same time, I’ll buy you another hotdog.” He offered, before pushing himself to his feet and scooping up their trash and his umbrella. “Will you?” Zexion hesitated, gaze darting around them, but in the end he only sniffed and nodded. Taking this as an agreement made, Lexaeus nodded too and went on his way.

* * *

“When you said you were interested in Zexion… I won’t deny I was surprised.”

“Why is that?”

Lexaeus was sitting in a small, clean office in one of the many towering buildings featured on every cityscape art piece of central. His hands were folded neatly on his lap, over the pressed black slacks and matching suit coat, tie done up neatly, ginger hair combed off of his face. The woman across the glass top desk from him had her corn colored hair twisted up into a bun at the base of her neck, square-framed glasses perched on a dainty nose. She looked over the information on her screen and then back to his face, small mouth frowning slightly, but not out of distaste. 

“Zexion is a very… unique child.” The social worker offered carefully. “He has a lot of special needs. It would be quite a handful, taking him in.”

“Is he not available for adoption?”

“I didn’t say that.” The woman replied, frown deepening. “It’s only that you don’t seem to have very much experience with children Detective Kando, and with all due respect, every child deserves the best care we can give them.”

“He doesn’t seem to be getting the best care on the streets, ma’am, with _all due respect_.” At that, her black pump stopped bouncing under the desk, her form becoming suddenly rigid.

“…Is that how you know him?” She asked, voice low. When he nodded her head bowed over the table, deft fingers plucking the glasses from her face to replace them with rubbing fingers. “Madam De’Ville doesn’t always inform us when one of her boys runs away.” She admitted with a level of guilt Lexaeus figured could have been a bit higher.

“Then maybe you should do something about her.” He said blankly. She huffed a breath, took a moment to regain her composure, and placed her glasses back on her nose.

“Well.” She offered at last, visually unnerved by the icy quiet which had spread between them. “Does he know you’re thinking about doing this?”

“I haven’t talked to him about it. I didn’t want to promise anything before I knew you would let me follow through.” Still polite, but not so warm to her as he had been before. The judgement in the air was palpable. He could sense it in the way she fidgeted, and in all honesty, he hoped it bothered her for a while. It was literally her job to ensure the safety of children, and as far as he could see she hadn’t been doing very much of it.

“He’s had trouble in the past,” The social worker was tiptoeing around him now. It was only a matter of time before she folded, he could see already. “He had an opportunity for a foster home a few months ago, but he didn’t mesh well. He made the family… uncomfortable.”

“Maybe they started it.”

She winced, reached for the mouse to click something on her screen, and sighed quietly. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, I really do. But it is my job to make sure these kids don’t bounce in and out of families more than can’t be avoided. I urge you to seriously consider what I’ve told you, _very_ seriously. After the kind of upset this boy has had, we can’t put him through a situation where it all might be taken away again.”

“What kind of upset is that?” He asked, leaning forward slightly in his seat. Difficult as this woman had been, now that he had her face to face she seemed much more amiable than over the phone and, really, he couldn’t help but yearn for a few answers. 

“I’m not allowed to tell you.” Lexaeus leaned back again, frowning. “There was a serious problem in his family, which is how we got him to begin with, but the files are sealed- for his protection. I can tell you that he’s troubled by it. And if everything goes through you’ll have rights to see some of his medical and mental records… but these rules exist for good reasons. So even for someone as special as Zexion, I won’t bend them.”

Something in him wanted to fight it, to argue that no one was getting anywhere near the boy if they weren’t allowed to _understand_ him… but he resisted the urge. He had to respect the social worker on this, at the very least. Her competence was under question, no doubt, but she seemed to care. The world needed more people who cared, and less people who battled them at every turn. Besides… it wasn’t like Lexaeus was a big talker himself. Maybe those things were better left to Ms. Trepe and her people, at least for now. 

“I understand.” He relented at last. A quiet sigh left the woman’s mouth, her shoulders slumping ever-so-slightly in relief. “But I haven’t changed my mind about the boy.” She, too, seemed resigned to this impasse they had found themselves in, as she bent to retrieve paperwork from the filing cabinet under her desk, clicked her pen against the surface, and without further fanfare, began.

* * *


	3. Playing House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My excuses are definitely viable and absolutely hold water. No jury of my peers would convict me. Shush, you.
> 
> The sweet illustration provided by the lovely Pup! Find her on DeviantART at: marleepup(dot)deviantart(dot)com.

* * *

“ _What?_ ”

Lexaeus was leaning against a metal-clad doorframe, just inside the coroner’s lab at the Special Crime Unit’s headquarters. The remains of some politician’s nephew were laid out on a table under bright white lights, sheet covering much of his form, eyelids pushed closed gently. If not for the steel tools on a sterilized side table or the X of stitching across the man’s chest, one might imagine him to be sleeping. Just on the other side of the table stood a living man. He was very long in build, thin for his height like a print stretched on silly putty, and made up of sharp angles and a haughty presence. His hair was the color of undercooked spaghetti and pulled into a tight band at the base of his neck today, the quite long strands tucked under the strap of the sanitary apron across his chest. In one gloved hand was a petri dish of something unnamable, all but forgotten for the shock on his narrow face, yellow-green eyes caught on the detective’s.

“You are joking.” He said decisively, setting his jaw over the idea. “You are _definitely_ joking. You are _not_ adopting some kid.”

“I am.” Lexaeus replied simply, thick arms crossed casually over his chest. The coroner barked a harsh laugh.

“Then you’re insane!” He snapped, still half laughing. “Have you ever _met_ a child? Children are afraid of you. Adults are afraid of you. What possessed you to think you could _raise one_ -?” Lexaeus opened his mouth to argue, but his friend beat him to it. “You don’t even keep pets!”

The larger man heaved a sigh and shook his head. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Vexen.” The coroner scoffed and set the dish down beside the cadaver’s shoulder. 

“I’m assuming you’ve mentioned it at all because you want me to talk you out of this. As if you need a _baby_ in your life.” He supposed. Lexaeus, once more, shook his head.

“It’s already nearly gone through. I could have him as soon as the end of next week.” He explained. “And he’s not as young as I thought at first. He’s eight.”

Vexen rolled his eyes and covered the remains with the sheet. “You’re in over your head.”

“He isn’t like other children.” Lexaeus insisted, feeling tired suddenly. Of all people in this world, there were none he cared for more than this coworker. That being said, he was beginning to wonder if he should have said nothing at all. Or, perhaps, if he should have at least mentioned this personal development sooner; given him time to come around to the idea. At the time, it had seemed wiser not to give him too much opportunity beforehand to spend complaining. “He’s smart. He’ll be reasonable.”

“ _Oh my god_.” Vexen groaned, peeling the blue gloves from his fingers with practiced expertise. “Let me guess- they called him ‘special’?”

Lexaeus blinked, taken aback. “Well- yes, but-” Again, Vexen cut him off.

“ _Fantastic_. You, Mr. Never-Met-A-Child, is taking on a _difficult_ one.”

“That’s why I need your help.” The detective stressed, his impressive patience at last wearing thin. Vexen paused in his motions, cleaning utensils forgotten in his hands, and turned slowly, facing the other man again.

“ _My_ help?” He inquired at last, one eye squinting slightly as the other widened. “ _Mine_? That’s a _terrible_ idea!”

“I trust you.” Vexen laughed again at the comment, though less humorously this time.

“If there is anyone on this earth who is more poorly suited to parenting than you, it’s me.” He insisted flatly. “I hate children.”

“This one’s different.” Lexaeus argued. Vexen shook his head and returned to his work, half muttering his reply.

“Yes, he’s probably a delinquent. That’s what that ‘unique’ thing is code for.” How he could guess the precise words the social worker had chosen was beyond Lexaeus, but he was doubtlessly misreading this. The boy would be grateful- _was_ grateful- and while the detective admitted to being far from ideal, didn’t those advertisements always insist that children didn’t need perfection? That they just needed you? Vexen, apparently, wasn’t finished yet, as a few minutes of muttering incoherently while he put away his tools burst back into functional speech just as he was peeling off his apron.

“What part of your brain thought this was a good idea?” He asked, continuing before receiving an answer. “Were you lonely-? Get a dog.” It wasn’t until he looked up again, pea-green eyes meeting powdery blue, that he finally, finally faltered. Lexaeus stared him down, face wiped clean of any discernable emotion, but they had known each other for a long time. Words weren’t always a necessity towards understanding. It was only a moment more before Vexen heaved a heavy sigh and dropped his hands to his sides. “Fine. I recognize this argument is happening weeks too late.”

“Thank you.” Lexaeus said blankly. Vexen sighed again and rubbed his face tiredly. 

“So, what do you want me to do?”

At first, Lexaeus merely shrugged, standing back from the doorframe to let his coworker pass, sample in hand and folder under elbow. Then he followed behind in long, even strides, watching the pale hair swish from side to side as Vexen strutted across the hall to the clinical laboratory.

“Be available.” He said at last. “And meet him, once he’s settled. Just that.”

“Just that-?” Vexen pressed, sounding impatient now. It was almost as if he’d expected a much grander role in all this. Lexaeus swallowed at the thought and shifted on large feet.

“Just that.” He confirmed.

Vexen shrugged a little, nodded a little, and set the laboratory machines in motion with the flip of a switch. “Fine.” He relented, rubbing his forehead with the back of a hand and turning back to face the detective. “As for this fellow-” He gestured with a thumb towards the tissue sample in the machine over his shoulder. “We’ll wait for the tox-screen to come in to know for sure, but I don’t suspect foul play. It looks like a straight-forward accidental overdose to me. Pure and simple.” Lexaeus nodded, switching gears just as easily.

“Alright. Make sure Leon gets your report.” Vexen’s lip curled up under his nose at the mention, but if he meant to argue he had the sense to stop himself.

“You know,” said a female voice behind Lexaeus, a short-statured young woman he knew could only be one Yuffie Kisaragi. She had been leaning against the doorframe casually for who knew how long, arms crossed over her chest. “The kids don’t like it when mommy and daddy fight.” Vexen huffed, cheeks reddening immediately, but Lexaeus faced her steadily. 

“What is it now?” He asked. The woman scoffed, rolled brown eyes, and shook her head. 

“Oh, I dunno,” She replied pleasantly. “Just wondering if we have a killer to hunt down or if the senator’s suspicions were just wishful thinking.”

“Wishful thinking,” said Vexen.

“Oh, phooey!” Yuffie swung her fist over her chest, like missing a ball with an imaginary bat, but her mood, if anything, brightened. “So are we going to be part of a shady government cover-up, or release the evidence to the powers that be and _destroy_ a man’s career?” Her smile sharpened slightly towards the end of the question, eyes glinting with a dangerous humor under the fringe of short black hair. Lexaeus chuckled.

“We file our report and be done with it.”

“Aw, you’re no fun.” The newest detective whined. Vexen cupped his chin in his hand, considering.

“It would rather improve company morale if we got to viciously attack the people making the red tape once in a while.” He agreed. “Maybe we should… let something slip.”

“I wonder if he’d _cry_!” Yuffie’s whole being lit up over the idea. Lexaeus made a mental note to never, ever leave her and Vexen alone together. Between a ninja and the forensic specialist, it might occur to them that they would make ideal partners in the perfect crime, and that would be just a mess.

“It’s a shame we won’t find out.” Vexen agreed with a long-suffering sigh. “I voted for the other guy.”

“Me too.” Yuffie admitted, hands on her hips now. “So! What was the fight about anyway?”

“It was _not_ a fight-” Vexen began, but Lexaeus cut him off bluntly.

“I’ve adopted a boy.” Yuffie blinked in surprise, staring with parted lips for all of nine seconds while her mind caught up to what her ears had registered. Then, her face split into a wide grin and she laughed out loud.

“Whoa, that was unexpected!” She cackled, leaning forward by the waist to let out the giggles. Lexaeus felt his face growing hot, and pointedly ignored Vexen’s muttered words of agreement. “I _never_ would’ve pegged you for a dad.” She looked up through disheveled bangs, eyes shining with humor. “That’s great Lex! You’ll have to bring him around sometime.”

Lexaeus shifted self-consciously, even as Vexen crossed his arms.

“You don’t think it’s strange?” He snapped. Yuffie shrugged.

“Sure, but it’s cool!” She replied without hesitation. “Hey, if you ever need a sitter let me know. Vince and I are still trying to decide if we actually like kids, or if we just tolerate them.” A sudden image crossed Lexaeus’ mind of timid little Zexion in a room with no one but Lexaeus’ energetic junior and her near-silent, metallic-armed companion. If Vincent’s haunting amber eyes and innumerable battle scars didn’t get him, Yuffie’s exuberant fondness for vigilante justice sure would. The idea of those two as parents was laughable. Then again, perhaps he was just the pot standing there imagining the kettle.

“Right.” He agreed at last, somewhat reluctantly. Vexen looked similarly disturbed by the mental image of their coworkers with children, but it seemed he’d either burned out on the subject already (and wouldn’t that be a surprise) or he saved personal rants of that nature specifically for Lexaeus. Sometimes it really didn’t pay at all to be special.

“You’ll be heading back upstairs then,” Vexen said, changing the subject. Yuffie nodded, and Lexaeus could have sworn he saw something sly creep into the coroner’s expression. “Excellent! Take this with you.” He tugged seemingly out of nowhere a manila folder, packed neatly with white sheets of notes and held closed with two large paperclips. Yuffie reached for it bemusedly, but Lexaeus crossed his arms.

“Vexen…” He was ignored. 

“Leon will want that on his desk right away.” Just speaking their boss’ name seemed to put a bad taste in Vexen’s mouth, the twitch in his right eye intensifying for a moment. Yuffie sighed.

“Very mature, Vex.” Her comments, too, were largely ignored.

“The only thing missing is the print-out for the tox-screen but my findings are consistent nonetheless. It will serve only to prove them.”

“You know, I’m not a postman.” Yuffie continued stubbornly. “Someday you’re gonna have to learn to get along again.” Lexaeus resisted the powerful urge to snort. _Again?_ Clearly she didn’t remember the founding days of this unit the same way he did. He had to agree with her though, that this outright feud was getting out of hand. They were both grown men. They shouldn’t need supervision to keep to civil tones in the workplace.

“Doubtful,” Vexen said smartly. “I will probably always outrank and out earn you, and even after you there will surely be some intern to deal with the pest for me.” For just a moment, Lexaeus felt certain Vexen was about to tip up his pointed nose and add a, _so there_. Yuffie scoffed loudly.

“Fine, whatever. You owe me lunch, weirdo.” She turned, waving with the folder on her way out. “See ya’ Lex.” Yuffie seemed to take whatever levity the room had contained with her on her way out, leaving the two men to stand together in a strange, heavy silence. Lexaeus shifted awkwardly. Vexen fiddled with the screen of a whirring machine. Just as the larger man was thinking of an excuse to head upstairs too, the coroner surprised him.

“Don’t forget to dress the poor thing.” He muttered, rather grudgingly. Lexaeus blinked, taken aback.

“Pardon-?” He asked. Vexen huffed and twisted to frown at him, though his cheeks were decidedly tinged in pink.

“The _child_.” He clarified. “There’s no telling what those social workers have given him, if anything. You can’t have him going off to school looking like some kind of _hooligan_. He’ll need new clothes.” Lexaeus blinked as the thought settled in, and couldn’t resist the urge to smile.

“Sure.”

“Don’t give me that look!” Vexen snapped. “It isn’t as though it’s of any use to me- it isn’t _my_ reputation as a respectable citizen on the line. I just happen to know that you’d forget your own head if it wasn’t permanently attached to your shoulders. God knows how they decided _you_ were applicable as a parent, but that being over and done with now you might as well act the part.” He had returned to jabbing at the screen of his machine, but Lexaeus could feel already his own irritation washing away. 

“Right.” He said softly.

“And get him decent sweaters!” The other added hotly, on an afterthought. “Mornings are especially chilly this time of year.”

“Alright, Vexen.” Lexaeus agreed. He set a large hand on the coroner’s nearer shoulder fondly before turning heel and excusing himself from the lab, the basement hallway, and into the stairwell. He was not a man who had often in his lifetime felt light, between his oversized frame and heavy build, but his boots took to the stairs more easily than usual that day, lifted him as if his shoulders housed helium balloons in the place of hard muscles. The look on Vexen’s face would follow him much further than Yuffie’s good humor. The flush and near frenzy to make excuses, to try to explain away the tenderness of his instinct. It could not be denied today though, not to Lexaeus. It felt almost like a secret, a hidden prize at the bottom of the box, but if Lexaeus reveled in it a little too much, no one would know it for the stone-like features of his face.

* * *

Lexaeus lived on the second floor in one of those mid-level housing complexes, just north of downtown Hollow Bastion and up a steep hill from the freeway which cut through the center of the city. The sort of building that had sturdy metal framework outside each door in the place of community hallways, decent water pressure and for the most part insect-free living space. It was small, but not uncomfortable. It was nearer to the six-lane highway than one might like, but also near to a stop along the underground. It was maintained primarily by the residents (the landlord more a creature of legend than a human being) but well-so.

Inside there were beige carpets and stark white walls, as well as mismatched furnishings in both the main room (which contained a living area and kitchen) and both of the modest bedrooms. The smaller of which had served well as an in-home office since Lexaeus moved in upon obtaining his degree a number of years previously, but had now been cleaned out and re-furnished with a full-size bed and an oak dresser. In the drawers and closet were already a few things, jeans and shirts, sweater-vests and black slacks for school, a package of socks and pajamas. The boy was at that moment already wearing his new shoes. 

He had seemed on such an even keel as the adoption process wore on, almost impassive to the changes occurring around him, but now Lexaeus glimpsed in him that fragile child again, like he had on that first night he bought him dinner. Almost… lost. As if it was some kind of mystery to him, or perhaps a hallucination, the roof over his head and the room before his eyes, ready to be lived in and house a collection of debris from his new life.

Lexaeus rested a hand on his shoulder, accustomed already to the way a touch made the boy jump, and gave him a small, hopefully-encouraging smile. “We can’t paint, but you can pin things up if you want to.” He said simply. The boy blinked up at him owlishly. Lexaeus didn’t know exactly what else to say, so he merely nodded. Zexion searched his expression for answers, and must have found whatever it was he was looking for, as his gaze meandered away again after a time, back to the bedroom. His bedroom. Lexaeus pulled his hand away and watched Zexion examine the space. The silence held weight, but wasn’t entirely uncomfortable either. Lexaeus, for one, didn’t mind silence and this boy seemed much the same. It was something that had endeared them to one another over their convenience-store dinners in the start. There was very little need for small talk between two people like them.

“Get some sleep. I’ll wake you for school in the morning.” The man said after what seemed an appropriate pause, offering the boy what he hoped was a supportive nod when his partially-obscured eyes snapped upwards and around. Zexion could be difficult to read at times, and he was sure Ms. Trepe couldn’t understand him at all, but on any child fear wasn’t exactly difficult to spot. He could have offered an assurance that the boy would be fine, but the words would have felt shallow and false. Lexaeus couldn’t possibly know. Instead, he patted his shoulder one time more, and left the door open between them when he retreated to the kitchen. 

Files from a recent case were laid out over the surface of the table, folders open and contents organized, scribbled on in places in smooth black ink, or the blue Vexen preferred. Lexaeus sat heavily and leaned over the work, re-reading. Up in the heights, the nice part of town where houses larger than this whole building stood, a woman had been poisoned at her own dining table, right in front of four guests. Her husband had been out of town on business, but there seemed to be some dubious details in their lives. Details the honorable Mr. Wise would rather not see leaked out. It must be nice to be an old friend of the man who funded the Radiant Garden SCU.

Lexaeus could hear shuffling from the front of the apartment, where Zexion was exploring his bedroom or rearranging his meager belongings in his drawers. He’d had so little, less even than the detective had imagined, but if he noticed the sadness of that, it didn’t show in him. 

After a time, the noises died out, and after a time more, Lexaeus’ eyes were crossing unrelentingly. He gave up the endeavor for the evening, stacking his folders tidily and pinning them closed, before trying the lock on their door and shutting down the apartment. He checked, peeking through the crack in the bedroom door on his way past towards his own room, on the boy. Zexion was curled up tightly under his blankets, looking impossibly tiny against the pillows, bathed in the ghostly light of the streetlamps outside through the slats in the blinds. His knuckles were pressed up against his lips, the first one half between them, perhaps a leftover habit of a child who had once sucked his thumb, but had since decided he was too grown up for baby-things like that. He was very certainly asleep.

Not for the first time, but certainly the first since he’d been allowed to officially collect him early that morning, Lexaeus knew then that he had made the right choice. The only right choice. Who else would have come along to give a child whose gaze could frighten the way Zexion’s did, a proper and safe place to sleep at night? And who else, but this particular child, could adjust to a man so imposing and so quiet well enough to sleep this soundly alone in his home the very first night? A harder, less sentimental voice in his mind urged him not to overthink, not to jump to conclusions. It was very early, very soon in all this, and they were essentially still strangers to one another. Zexion’s penchant towards doing for himself without help more than a child his age should could be a problem in some ways, and whatever frights he had lived were still largely a mystery. In addition, Lexaeus wasn’t exactly nurturing and had little experience in the art thereof. Much was likely to go wrong.

Still, as he pulled the bedroom door closed with a gentle click, the dreaded ideas couldn’t quite sink in. It was only a miniature human. In the general way, humans weren’t such a complicated and impossible lot. Lexaeus handled them well on a regular basis. A child couldn’t be so different, even a ‘unique’ one.

* * *

“How did you jump to that conclusion? I thought the brother was definitely our guy…” Yuffie asked over lunch some weeks later, chopsticks balanced deftly in her fingers, elbows on the glass table. 

“Well…” Lexaeus said, grimacing inwardly, “It was actually something Zexion said. I don’t know how he did it, but… he treated it like a puzzle, and when he showed me what he’d done, it just… clicked.”

“You let the _child_ read your notes?” Vexen asked disapprovingly, his tuna rolls all but forgotten before him. Lexaeus winced. Actually, he’d simply misjudged the timing… again. This school-schedule thing, insistent upon running his life was difficult to get used to. It had been his day off and he’d gone for groceries, but took longer than expected. Zexion had come home to an empty apartment and simply helped himself. Really, Lexaeus needed to sort out a better place to keep his work materials than the kitchen table, but the office was now Zexion’s space and his own bedroom was hardly large enough for its intended purpose. There was simply nowhere else to put that kind of thing. By the time Lexaeus returned home, the boy was sprawled out across the table with every sheet of paper out, taking meticulous notes on the margin of a page in no.2 pencil. 

Lexaeus meant to scold him, he _really_ had, but Zexion pointed out a flaw in a theory that he hadn’t noticed before, and the next thing he knew he had a different suspect than he’d originally thought, folding and offering up a full confession. Could you really punish someone for finding the right answer? It wasn’t good to go through an adult’s things, no, but wasn’t a murder solved a _bit_ more important than a little disrespect for the privacy of a man’s briefcase?

“Oh-hoho,” Yuffie added, her amusement poorly disguised behind a mask of sympathy. “That kid is _trouble_.”

She didn’t have to tell him that. He _lived_ with the boy. He was more aware than anyone just how dangerously bright Zexion could be when he was interested. And the trouble was, he was far more interested in what his adoptive father did for a living than he was in basic parts of speech and elementary-level math. There was a lot of cajoling involved in getting Zexion to do his homework every day, but leave him alone with a folder that looked somewhat official or a book he’d never seen before, and it was as if you’d given him a bag of candy.

“You need to get him a hobby, post haste.” Vexen agreed, upper lip rolled under his nose. Lexaeus prodded at his noodles with his utensil, frowning. “We can’t have him stumbling upon anything confidential.”

“Or worse,” Yuffie cut in, “Too disturbing for his young mind!” Lexaeus’ thick eyebrows shot up towards his hairline, and he nodded immediately, through a mouthful of lo mein. God forbid Zexion came across crime scene pictures or something else of the like. He was doubtlessly already troubled enough- and worse, what if the social worker reclaimed him over a mishap like that? Exhausting as it was to keep an eye on him the way he needed, Lexaeus already didn’t like to imagine a life without him. In his own, strange way, he was very endearing.

“Sign him up for a sport?” Yuffie guessed, trying to be helpful. “The boys around seem really into blitzball these days. Little too Spiran for my tastes, but I guess swimming is a good skill.” Lexaeus had the sudden mental image of Zexion in a swim cap, hair sticking out from under it in all manner of awkward directions, skinny arms crossed over his chest and frowning that deep, full-lipped frown he gave when one suggested he do anything he found unpleasant. Such as talking to people, or playing outside. Vexen must have had a similar vision, because he laughed out loud, hard and sharp enough to startle the civilians one table over.

“I think the child’s more of a scholarly type.” He corrected between high guffaws. Yuffie flushed, sipped from her glass petulantly, and waited for him to finish before shooting off a comeback.

“Alright, fine- then it’s your department. So _you_ find him something to do.” What remained of the laughter died in Vexen’s throat, lips parting to leave him looking a little shell-shocked. Lexaeus watched the exchange curiously, sipping his water.

“…He does like learning the way you do.” He added hopefully. Vexen slowly, but undeniably, turned quite red about the face. 

“I’m not his father.” He said quickly. Lexaeus wanted to point out that it wasn’t exactly a father he acted like when in front of the child, but decided not to press his luck. He should be happy the coroner knew Zexion at all, with the way he could be. Vexen insisted it was only because Lexaeus liked take-out too often, and Zexion liked sweets too much, that kept him coming over at around dinnertime. Someone had to make sure the child got the proper dietary cocktail to ensure healthy growth. Apparently he didn’t consider the detective to be up to the job, or else (more likely, as far as Lexaeus was concerned) he rather enjoyed bossing Zexion around, instilling a larger dose than necessary of logic and polite-but-blunt habits into his life. Vexen’s coworkers (yes, even Yuffie) waited in silence, each staring him down. He faltered. “…Fine. I’ll make a few calls.”

“Thank you.” Lexaeus said. Vexen scoffed and closed the styrofoam lid on his lunch.

“Don’t thank me yet.” He insisted. “He’ll need a hefty book budget by the time I’m through with him, and anyway I can’t promise anything just yet.”

“Just so long as he doesn’t need therapy by the time you’re through with him, I’m sure Lex’ll be fine.” Yuffie offered with a cheeky smile- and was that a wink? Vexen let out a noise that was partly a snort, partly a whine, and excused himself without further ado.

* * *

“You absolutely _must_ be on your best behavior for this occasion, child.” Vexen insisted for the third time that afternoon, as he pulled a comb from his sleeve and used it to painstakingly tame Zexion’s wild hair. He parted it cleanly down one side and tucked bangs behind an ear. The boy held still, tolerating the mothering only because he was an uncommonly quick learner, and he found some time ago that the less fight he put up, the shorter the length of time Vexen would expect him to maintain a tidy visage. “I mean it now. If you are not a prime example of maturity and civility, you won’t be allowed to visit again. I pulled a lot of strings for this opportunity, you should know.” 

Zexion nodded, folding his arms over his chest and shrinking slightly under the adult’s sharp gaze. He was still a bit underweight and pale and had the eyelids of one unfamiliar with sleep, but cleaned and combed and dressed in his school clothes he found he looked respectable enough. Even with the day nearing its end he felt tidy, and Vexen must have agreed with that assessment, since he chose only to attack the boy’s head before taking him to a place too much in the public eye.

“And stand up straight.” Boney hands darted to Zexion’s upper back and shoulders, gently but firmly correcting his posture. “You’re far too short to slouch.”

They had emerged from the underground on the northeast side of central, just where looming skyscrapers gave way to the sprawling, grass-laden campus of RGU. The university was among the finest in the nation, and absolutely looked the part, from its new-construction dormitories in the distance, to the flower-filled memorial park and information center at its front, to the building they had ventured here today to visit.

It was a towering, grand building atop a hill, wide marble stairs leading up to columns too large for even two Zexions to wrap arms around and touch, which supported a shining metal roof and the balcony on the second floor. The plaque beside the wide double-doors read the name of some immensely wealthy donor after which the building was titled in honor, and another word. A word Zexion liked.

_Library_.

He felt excitement buzzing just under the surface of his skin, and it was all he could do to restrain himself, to move slowly and deliberately, to maintain that mature air Vexen had demanded of him. _The university library_. Surely, he’d never before in his life set foot in a place that would have the volume and variety of tomes as this building. As it was, his steps bounced just slightly, and if someone knew him very, very well, they might note a shift in his ever-schooled expression, a childlike widening of his eyes as he and the man escorting him passed through the glass doors. 

The inside was bright, cool, and smelled wonderfully of well-loved paper and leather binding and _knowledge_. Skylights let in the afternoon sun, spilling golden rays across the polished porcelain floors and the railing around the overlook on the second floor which framed the lobby. Zexion craned his neck to see, far more interested in the dark-stained wooden bookshelves (of which there must be many dozens) than the counter, help desk, and information center of the lobby. It was this reason, taking in the sights and scents and hushed sounds, turning slowly on his heels and just staring, why he didn’t recognize the woman behind the counter sooner. He hadn’t bothered to look.

“Vexen, hi- you’re right on time as always,” The young woman said with a breathless little laugh from behind a sizable stack of books which seemed to need repair. “I’m a little behind today though, I’m afraid. Why don’t you-” Her sudden silence registered as peculiar in Zexion’s mind, so he turned his attention to her at last, and found himself as frozen in shock as she. Vexen looked between them, quirking a brow curiously.

“Oh my goodness!” Aerith breathed a tense moment later. Zexion shrank under the surprised words, ducking his head and curling his shoulders inwards. For once Vexen forgot to correct him. Too busy was he, staring at the librarian as she ducked out from behind the counter to close the gap between them. “I’m so glad to see you!” She cried, and it was sincere. She was always sincere- Zexion could tell the difference. But unlike in the church on Wednesday nights when she had been a rare comfort he’d allowed himself only because he expected to die if he didn’t, here she seemed almost a danger, as if she knew some secret even he couldn’t name, a link to a time and place gone by. As out of place as a lily in the desert.

“You know Zexion-?” Vexen asked, both eyebrows knitted down over his eyes and lips pursed now. Aerith smiled a pretty, happy one, like she wore sometimes when one of the older boys told her a joke, or asked her on a date. As if Vexen was silly, but amusing. 

“We’ve met a few times, yes. But I haven’t seen him in months.” Zexion wrapped his arms over his chest, feeling chilly suddenly without his heavy sweatshirt, and hoped Aerith wouldn’t explain. “I didn’t know he’d been adopted. I’m so glad to see you’re okay.” The last bit was directed back at him. He peeked through the heavy curtain of his hair, still tidied by Vexen’s handiwork but well and truly hanging back into his face now, and tried to look more indifferent than timid. Aerith’s green eyes were soft, nonthreatening, and it seemed by some miracle that she’d gotten his silent message. At least while he was there to hear it, she didn’t give everything away.

“I had no idea, or I would’ve said.” Vexen said. Aerith waved the apology off casually, smiling on her way back to her post.

“It’s no problem- no problem at all. And I do have everything just about set up in any case. I know what you meant now, about being sure Zexion wouldn’t make a fuss!” The child twitched slightly. It felt strange to hear her say his name. She, however, was typing away on a keyboard to her left, ignorant to his discomfort. “I’ve got _so much_ to do today, so if you don’t mind waiting around a bit I can show you around. Oh, and if you decide to check something out, I’ll probably be able to set you up a visitor’s card today. It’s more restrictive than the student one, but I’m afraid it’s the most I’m allowed to give. We’re bending the rules already, passing one out to someone so young.”

“That’s very gracious, Aerith.” Vexen replied appreciatively. He turned his attention downwards and to the side, to Zexion who was slowly, very slowly, beginning to uncurl his body from its shriveled, purely defensive state. The promise of a membership card to a library like this one softened him, not unlike an ordinary child in reaction to a kind-faced stuffed toy. The childlike glint was returning to his dark eyes, which scanned the shelves around him once more. They were so close… nearly in reach. Vexen sighed quietly and shifted, using his hands once more to correct the child’s posture and tuck back his hair. “What do you say-?” He prompted. 

Aerith looked up as Zexion bit his lower lip. He tried to duck his head, but Vexen had returned to paying attention to his posture in the wake of his astonishment. He was watching him expectantly, the way he did over the dinner table at night when he came over to cook. Zexion swallowed hard, looked anywhere but at his chaperone, and fought conflicting urges- to spin around and run away so he wouldn’t have to speak when he wasn’t comfortable, or to stay and reap the reward of unmatchable literary resources at his fingertips. The elementary school’s library was a joke, especially compared to _this_. At long last he steeled himself, peeked up at the librarian’s face, and rasped out a quiet,

“Thank you, ma’am.” Aerith looked sympathetic as he struggled, but she visibly brightened from his words. Her smile was warm and encouraging. He felt very… peculiar about it. 

“You’re welcome, darling.” She said kindly.

“We’re all set, then?” Vexen asked, after offering Zexion a short nod of approval. Aerith nodded too, humming her assent. “Very good.” He grasped Zexion by the shoulders, holding his attention with a firm, piercing gaze. “You will stay within the walls of this building until I come to pick you up at six. You will mind your manners, you will not venture outside, and you will not leave with anyone else. Is that understood?” Zexion stared up at him incredulously. He almost wanted to laugh. Venture outside? Why in heaven’s name would he _ever_ leave this building before he had to? Not receiving the verbal answer he doubtlessly would have preferred, but seeming content in the agreement assumed from the child’s look of bewilderment, Vexen pulled away. 

“Don’t worry Vexen, I’ll keep an eye on him.” Aerith promised. He shot her a thin smile, and then a glance Zexion’s way. Then he flipped his long hair over his shoulder and strutted back the way they had come, out into the late afternoon light. Zexion watched him go, and then turned to look at the librarian uncertainly. She was looking at him, too, and holding a folded sheet of paper in one hand.

“I printed out a map for you. If you’re nervous, I can show you around?” He came forward to take the offering, but shook his head. This place was big, a maze of words. He wanted to explore it for himself. “Alright.” Aerith agreed. “If there’s anything you want to borrow you have to bring it to me before you leave with it, so don’t forget. We’re very serious about our rules. And if you need anything, just come ask me.” He nodded. She nodded too, gave him one last smile, and as she returned to her work he turned in a random direction, map in hand, and wandered.

At first it was overwhelming, standing between shelves piled to the bursting point with books, reaching well over his head in long aisles and rows. Then, there was something of a sense of wonder to it. For the first hour or so, Zexion just wandered, meandering up and down through the nearest section, and then the one beside it. He ran tiny fingers over wide spines, the tactile sensation soothing to him, like he’d heard sand between one’s toes felt. Breath came easier in this dry environment, thoughts softer, more controlled with less effort. 

He reached onto his tip-toes struggling after a particularly sizable tome, barely able to grasp it at all, but catching it when it toppled from its place and towards the floor. He would _never_ let a book this beautiful fall to the floor. He cradled it in his hands, sank to his knees, and turned it cover-up. His fingers traced the indentations of words on the hardback as he read them. 

An encyclopedia of the mind. Nine-hundred pages of thoughts and ideas and theories about philosophy and linguistics and newr… _neuroscience_. Zexion realized with a start that he didn’t know what neuroscience was. Hugging the volume to his chest as if it were a precious keepsake, he pushed to his feet and jogged down the aisle and around a corner excitedly- just to stop short and freeze.

_People_.

He’d stumbled upon a sort of study area. Here there were large wooden tables with chairs lined up in rows in the place of bookshelves. Sitting with papers and bags or laptop computers, headphone-wires hanging from the ears of some, fingers twirling hair of others, were a number of young adults. _Students_ , Zexion figured once his startled mind caught up. He’d forgotten that he wasn’t alone. Feeling awkwardly like a trespasser, he grasped the book tighter and took a step backwards. And then another. Someone clicked furiously on their keyboard, as if erasing several lines of text in frustration. Zexion froze. 

Nothing happened. 

He took another step backwards, holding his breath. Wide eyes watched through strands of dark hair, darting from figure to figure. Someone yawned, stretched, and to the child’s absolute horror- their eyes met. The stranger blinked in mild curiosity. Zexion gulped air and turned on a dime, making a run for it. 

He _was_ allowed to be here. He had been invited. He knew the librarian- Vexen was her friend. It didn’t make sense to feel this way and he knew it- but the panic rushed through his veins like angry ocean waves regardless of any logic applied. It was all he could do to keep his footfalls quiet, running near on his toes to soften the slapping of rubber soles on tile and stiff carpet alike. He found a staircase, took it upwards, dodged to the left and away. He didn’t slow until the upsetting feeling of being followed faded, and he didn’t start to breathe again until the sensation of being watched began to follow suit. He stopped, looked around him, knuckles white around the corners of his book.

This section looked, for all intents and purposes, quite like the ones he’d explored already. Hardback books lined both sides, from the floor to well above Zexion’s head. Many of them seemed much thinner than those downstairs however, he noted. Everything around him was blissfully, blissfully quiet. The swimming of his head subsided. He walked slowly, pausing from time to time to lean in and read titles. Poetry, it seemed. Zexion didn’t know anything about poetry, really. The not-knowing pestered at the back of his mind, settled in comfortably beside the question mark that was _neuroscience_ , and refused to depart. So he looked over his shoulder and peeked around the corners from both sides of the aisle, before setting the massive book gingerly on the floor. He turned then, running fingertips over the shelf nearest to his eye-level, until they caught on a soft blue cover. 

It seemed to be a collection, of one-hundred of the ‘best’ poems in its proud opinion. This seemed a good place to start. The child tucked the volume under his elbow and returned for the other one, lifting them up together and starting off again, much more cautiously this time, for a place to sit and read. He leaned, looking up and down and every direction he could before slipping out from between bookshelves. He ducked back for cover if he heard the footfalls of adult-sized feet anywhere nearby. He crept with well-practiced skill, passed the odd student or professor, feeling a ghost of sensation on his shoulders, the memory of the fear that was sneaking out passed Madam De’Ville or keeping out of sight of gang bangers in alleyways. It was surreal, to be in a place so bright and big and filled with possibly his favorite thing in the world… and to remember feeling like that.

He pushed the thoughts from his mind, shoved them down and away, to a place where they couldn’t quite touch him… and when he found a secluded spot between two mildly dusty shelves, under a window, he felt a little better. By the time he huddled up with his discoveries on the floor, the light from outside was decidedly orange, bathing his pale hands and the pages beneath his fingers in a sepia glow. He used the index of the first book, finger tracing the page until he found _neuroscience_ , and proceeded to toil away for some time reading about it. The language was difficult, and there were words he didn’t understand. He ventured quite bravely out once more, and returned with two dictionaries some time later- one standard, one scientific. They lay open on either side of the encyclopedia, a semicircle of books almost too large for him to even hold standing sentinel between him and the strangers of the world. 

Zexion smiled at the thought, imagining them as soldiers in decorated uniforms. They’d stand at attention and salute, and hold their swords out before them for hours, without so much as a twitch or complaint. Tireless protectors, unafraid of the unknown because there was _nothing_ that couldn’t be understood. Unafraid of strangers because they were stronger than a little boy with scary eyes and funny hair. For a moment they were real to him, as real as the smooth paper under the pads of his fingers, and he felt like nothing could get him here. Smile turning almost sleepy from relief, Zexion stretched out on his stomach, tucking his elbows down to prop him up, and read. 

“Ah, there you are!”

Zexion didn’t know when he’d fallen asleep, but he was startled awake by a sharp (albeit familiar) voice and quick footfalls on the carpet. He lifted his head, pushed onto his knees, and blinked owlishly upwards. Vexen was pacing down the aisle towards his little hiding spot, pale hair billowing over both shoulders as he came to a stop and leaned over. Zexion watched his eyes dart from place to place, taking in the scene rapidly. 

“Didn’t I tell you not to wander off, child?” He asked firmly, though not without a certain fondness in his piercing eyes. Zexion rubbed his face tiredly, sitting back on his ankles. Had he said that? Maybe he had… but Zexion had _hardly_ wandered off. He’d stayed in the building just as he was meant to. It wasn’t his fault it was such a huge one. Besides, how can anyone remember anything they read with all those people _watching them_? Finding solitude had been an absolute must. Vexen knelt, lifting the books up one at a time, closing the covers quietly and reading each title in turn. The fading light from the window warmed his chilly appearance, setting heavy shadows under the sharp angles but coloring his skin and fair hair in warm pastels. 

Zexion watched him collect and stack the materials, and chewed on his lower lip. Was it after six already? He had really only just gotten started… 

“No matter.” Vexen was stating a moment later, to himself or Zexion’s thoughts the child couldn’t guess. He pushed to his feet, books balanced in his arms, and examined the boy on the floor again. “We really should get you home.” He started off without another word, back through the winding walls of shelves and down the stairs. Zexion followed at his heels, half at a jog to keep up with Vexen’s long strides, and wished privately that he’d been allowed to carry at least one or two of those. They walked passed a lingering student or two, and he would have liked to have one of his soldiers close at hand. Vexen, oblivious to Zexion’s concerns, paced straight up to the main desk and lifted Zexion’s collection up onto the counter.

“Had a nice time?” Aerith asked kindly, leaning forward so she might see past the edge of her high desk and catch a glimpse of the boy’s face. Zexion ducked his head, feeling heat blossom across his cheeks.

“We owe you our thanks.” Vexen said on his behalf, smiling. The librarian’s gaze shifted to meet his, and she smiled too. 

“Don’t mention it! It was no trouble for me.” Zexion noticed, glancing up at her uncertainly, that she winked. Vexen chuckled. “I’ve got this all finished up, too. Here’s the card…” She pushed a laminated piece of cardstock about the size of a business card across the desk, which Vexen pocketed immediately. “And… _wow_ , these are some serious books to borrow. You have to pick just three though, okay?” Her gaze had gone back to Zexion again, who startled. Pick three? Oh. Oh, well… he should… Chewing on his lower lip nervously, he stepped forward and stretched onto his toes, pushing the standard dictionary away from the rest of the stack, before peeking at the woman uncertainly. Aerith nodded her understanding, seeming completely unbothered by his behavior, and scanned the tags off of each one into the system.

Maybe… maybe it wasn’t so terrible to have her here after all, he thought as he watched her work. At least Aerith didn’t stare at him, or try to make him talk. She didn’t care about things like that.

“No really, thank you.” Vexen pressed as he took the books back into his arms, “For keeping him out of trouble.” Aerith shook her head.

“He’s a good boy.”

“We do our best.” Vexen agreed, though when he glanced down at Zexion again, there was something akin to pride in his eyes. Zexion didn’t know what he’d expected him to do, but whatever he’d been anxious about obviously hadn’t come to pass. As he followed the man out and towards the subway stop, he wondered why Vexen was so odd. Why his eye twitched sometimes, and why only Lexaeus and nice women seemed to like him.

_Some questions don’t have answers_ , he realized before they quite made it home. And he tried to be okay with that.

* * *


	4. Through the Looking Glass, and What Zexion Found There

* * *

“Always good to see you, Zexion.” The social worker said tiredly, even as the boy darted from under her arm, out of the office and into the waiting room, small feet slapping against the thin carpet in his haste. Lexaeus stood, tucking his manila folder back into his case, and offered the boy something like a smile. Zexion wasn’t keen on meeting any gazes however, as per usual on days like this. “Detective Kando? Can I have a word?”

“Of course.” Keeping his bag in hand (even with library books serving as an excellent distraction that kid was still far too curious for anybody’s good, and Lexaeus could learn a lesson) he nodded to his adoptive son and crossed the threshold into the office much less timidly than Zexion had done an hour before. He caught a glimpse just as she was closing the door behind them, of the boy pushing up into Lexaeus’ vacated seat and opening his book bag. He turned his attention to the social worker’s moss colored eyes expectantly. She hesitated.

“I wanted to ask you…” Ms. Trepe said haltingly, gesturing to a seat for him as she navigated towards her own. Putting the desk safely between them, he noted. Obviously she still hadn’t quite gotten over his… more forceful behavior before the adoption. Under ordinary circumstances Lexaeus would have cringed from the thought, mortified by the idea of a woman feeling uncomfortable around him… but somebody should put the fear of god into these people, and if it had to be him, then so be it. He needed only to recollect Zexion the night they met to brush away any pity he had for social workers. He sat casually, and waited. “What sort of… extracurriculars is Zexion participating in, in school?”

Lexaeus blinked dumbly, taken aback. “I beg your pardon?” Ms. Trepe chuckled, though her face showed more a grimace.

“I mean, does he participate in anything additional, in school?” She glanced at the screen of her computer, and then back to Lexaeus’ face. “It just doesn’t seem to me that he’s made very many friends, and I wondered if maybe there was something he’d like to do that might… help him to connect.” If connecting was the goal, they were unlikely to achieve it through school clubs, Lexaeus thought bemusedly. 

“He spends a lot of time at the university library.” He said instead. “A friend of a friend works there, and helped him get a card.”

“Oh.” Ms. Trepe said blankly. “That’s… very nice. I’m sure he’s learning a lot. And he enjoys reading, I know. Do they have… any children’s programs?”

“I don’t know.” Lexaeus answered honestly, shifting his elbows on the armrests slightly. As a parent, that’s the kind of question he should ask of a place like that, isn’t it? Whoops. It was just that it was hard, sometimes, to think of Zexion as a child. Especially when it came to books. He’d been very interested in criminology and forensics recently… most boys were thinking about trucks or cops and robbers at his age. Lexaeus knew from the start that he was signing up for different though, so he’d have to take care to remind himself. The kid might have an old soul, but he was still only eight. “Maybe in the summer.”

“Sign him up for something like that. If not there, then look elsewhere when school lets out.” Ms. Trepe suggested. “He _needs_ to be around children his age, and I think he’s still struggling in school.” Struggling. Well, Lexaeus had guessed a while ago that the kid didn’t tell her much, but now he was sure. 

Zexion did not struggle in school. He simply didn’t care for it. His grades were good, if only because Vexen held that library card over his head about them, but anything that required much in the way of participation wasn’t Zexion’s thing. They had had a few conversations about skipping lessons and show-and-tell already. You could only tell a teacher he was shy so many times before they began to roll their eyes, and Lexaeus figured their buffer period would probably end with the spring semester. Of course, there would always be bullies too, but that was just the way of things. Lexaeus wasn’t too old to remember. The plus side was, unlike with adults, kids got a couple of months off every summer so the tedium of school time would be on pause for the both of them in just a couple of weeks. Lexaeus knew that he and Zexion fundamentally agreed that it could not come soon enough.

“He’s very shy with other kids.” He reasoned carefully. The social worker leaned back in her chair and folded her hands on her lap.

“I know. But that’s why he _needs_ the extra practice. Everyone needs friends, and if he has any he isn’t interested in telling me about them.”

There was an excuse Lexaeus couldn’t make on Zexion’s behalf, and a point he couldn’t quite logic away either. Zexion was private, yes, but so was Lexaeus so he knew some of the signs. He had to hand it to Ms. Trepe; if there were any friendships going on, they couldn’t be very good ones.

“You’re right.” He relented at last. “I won’t force him to do something he hates, though.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it!” The woman replied lightly, immediately pleasant in her victory and pushing to her feet. “We all just want him to be happy.”

“That we do.” He stood also, and they shook hands over the glass tabletop. “I’ll look into it. Thank you for your time.”

“Thank you.”

He withheld the sigh until he and tiny Zexion were out of the elevator, through the spinning door and onto the streets. He met the boy’s gaze when they paused at the crosswalk, and tried not to laugh at the way Zexion glanced back towards the social worker’s building and rolled his eyes. Funny or not, it was rude and Vexen was always going on about instilling good manners into the kid. 

“About average?” He supposed. Zexion, smirking at the slightest shift in Lexaeus’ stone-carved face, looked elsewhere and shrugged. Lexaeus sighed again and, resting a large hand on a thin shoulder, kept him close as they crossed the street. “I think you’re driving her crazy.” It was an observation that didn’t require response, and the man didn’t mind that he didn’t get one. They made their way through the Saturday morning, under the glaring sun, north from central Hollow Bastion and east through downtown. They stopped at the nearest grocery store to the apartment, picked up a few essentials, and carried on home.

Later that day, as per usual for a Saturday, Vexen would meet them at the apartment to collect Zexion for a couple of hours at the library. Lexaeus would meet them nearby at around suppertime, and they would eat together. Zexion would watch the adults and listen, absorbing more of what went on than one might wish of a little boy… but Vexen, much like Lexaeus, had long since grown used to the child’s unsettling stare. 

Time and practice were setting in and beginning to show results in their new life together. Lexaeus grew used to meetings and appointments and enforcing bedtimes, as Zexion learned about cooking (experiments therein ranging from inedible to surprisingly decent) reasonable discipline, and being cared for. To say there was something of a learning curve was an understatement. Nonetheless, they had fallen into a comfortable pattern.

How Vexen found himself so deeply involved in said pattern was anybody’s guess.

Previously, his Saturday routine had involved finishing up any leftover work in the lab in the morning, fueled by copious quantities of caffeine, followed by a long lunch over which he would investigate some story or another, be it online or in the form of a library book. Then, he would fill the afternoon with whatever struck his fancy- sometimes a visit with one of his few but well-tolerated friends, grocery shopping, and maybe a glass of wine and a hot bath towards night.

Now, he found himself meeting Lexaeus and Zexion at the door to the detective’s laughably small apartment at around midday. He would collect Zexion and take him to the library, where the child wandered free as Vexen took care of his own needs there and caught up with Aerith. He would then leave the boy in her care, get his groceries, and return. By the time these errands had been run and Zexion was willing to be dragged from the impressive building, it tended towards being very nearly suppertime. The hour being as it was, it was simply a time-saving maneuver, taking Zexion straight home and cooking there. Even with Lexaeus coming to meet them nearby, well… It was… it was for the good of a growing child’s physical health as much as anything else. More than anything else, likely, as it so happened.

Vexen was _hardly_ the kind of man to become invested- especially in a frustrating, skinny little mess of a child like this one. Perish the thought.

Really, it rather defied logical explanation, the change in his life this way. Sometimes he minded it, but other times… His hip bumped against Lexaeus’ on his way past, carrying the pan of freshly-boiled pasta towards the drainer in the sink as the larger man bent over the counter, inexpertly chopping an onion. Lexaeus had pressed himself forward, knees against cabinets to let him through, but the space was hardly sufficient for one chef. Certainly not suited for two. Vexen looked up at precisely the moment his coworker looked over, and the mountainous man smiled. Vexen felt his face overheat- doubtlessly from the steaming pot- and looked away quickly, dumping the contents unceremoniously into the colander.

Other times… well, it wasn’t all bad.

Zexion sat behind them at his usual chair around the little wooden table, socked feet kicking over the linoleum and absorbed rather completely into some book or another. Vexen had forgotten already what this month’s obsession was turning out to be. It was of little consequence. Zexion’s mind was expanding as a young mind should, but to what in particular wasn’t of interest to Vexen. _He_ wasn’t the child’s father, after all.

Ground beef and onions and round slices of carrots were browned in a skillet together, sautéed, and joined by other ingredients. The aroma of the savory sauce filled the apartment with the sound of sizzling food. Lexaeus, bless him, was more in the way than he was of use, but Vexen was good enough not to comment. It was an arrangement they had all grown accustomed to, not the least of all him. 

“Zexion, put that book away and set the table please.” He said for the second time, ducking under Lexaeus’ arms as the larger man held a meager stack of large plates aloft. The child looked up, blinked, but slid from his chair to do as he was told. Vexen felt his face twist into something like a smile. He’d always been told his smile frightened small children… but not this one.

In a way then, he supposed it didn’t matter how it happened. It had happened. Here they were and this was Vexen’s life now. Or, well… it was _Lexaeus’_ life now. But… but Vexen was, for better or worse, almost a part of it. Almost. At least… on Saturdays and the occasional Tuesday night. He shimmied into the gap between the wall and the table, sliding carefully into his chair while Lexaeus and Zexion settled into their usual places across from him. Lexaeus dished. Zexion lifted his fork to his mouth. Vexen’s eyes narrowed.

“What do you say?” There was a pause. Zexion glanced up, striking eyes pinning the coroner down from behind strands of dark hair. Vexen stared back unblinkingly. Challengingly. Go ahead and deny the manners you know, child. Go right ahead. See what happens. Somewhere to Vexen’s right, Lexaeus sighed.

In the end Zexion faltered, tucked his chin, and murmured, “Thank you, for cooking.” Vexen lifted his chin superiorly, smirking.

“You’re welcome.” The sudden tension melted from the kitchen with the words, and for a while all merely chewed in a comfortable quiet. Vexen rolled the meal over in his mouth, considering spices and vegetables and the ever-inflating meat prices. Across from him, Zexion took tiny sips from his glass of milk every now and then, eyes straying from his plate to the adults around him. Lexaeus looked as though he was wondering how many days of leftovers the pot of noodles would give them. Vexen let out a breath at the thought. Poor, strange man. Whatever would he do without Vexen’s help?

The sound brought two sets of bluish eyes to his face, Vexen realized a beat too late. He cleared his throat, set his fork down, and hurried to find a topic of conversation that didn’t revolve in any way around Lexaeus. A man of so few words, such conversation should be all too easy- how foolish to scramble for it.

“Tell me about your appointment today. How did it go?” Vexen asked the child, rather smartly.

Zexion’s well-schooled expression faltered slightly, lip twisting in distaste. He looked away, down and to the side, and offered only a noncommittal shrug in reply. Vexen was just opening his mouth to press the topic when Lexaeus spoke up on Zexion’s behalf.

“The social worker wants him to join a club over the summer. Maybe the children’s reading program.” Zexion scowled at his plate. Lexaeus glanced his way and then back to Vexen’s face. The coroner was watching him with deeply furrowed eyebrows, lips parted in puzzlement. “She says he needs more time around kids his age.” With the addition of that detail, it all made sudden sense.

“What nonsense!” Vexen replied haughtily before he could help himself, “What a boy like Zexion needs is opportunity to flourish in his environment. He doesn’t need _other people_ for that.” The boy’s gaze snapped up to Vexen’s face, the eye that wasn’t completely covered by uncombed hair wide. Vexen didn’t so much as glance his way however, too busy steaming in Lexaeus’ general direction. “Why, I hardly spent a moment socializing with other children at his age, and I turned out perfectly well.”

Lexaeus grimaced into his water glass, as if expecting some sort of unwarranted tirade. As if Vexen was _overeating_. Honestly, it was much more Lexaeus not reacting _enough_. These _people_ , telling someone they couldn’t hope to intellectually understand how he should approach the world around him. It was absolutely intolerable. 

“It’s a complete fallacy, the idea that we need others to interact with us in comradely ways in order to mature into successful adults.” His pea-green eyes snapped to Zexion at long last, whose pale lips were parted, stunned. “You obviously are capable of growing up the way you are, especially as far ahead of the other children as you are… I’m sure you have little in common.”

The boy hesitated, glanced at the frowning Lexaeus, and nodded. Vexen nodded too.

“Then that’s that.” He said decisively. Lexaeus sighed again.

“Ms. Trepe wants us all to try.” He said evenly, more in reminder to his adoptive son than anything. His eyes, however, held a determined warning when they met with Vexen’s. The coroner, caught in them, faltered. “So I think if the university library does a summer program, you should try it out.” Zexion groaned, ducking down over his plate dejectedly. Vexen felt rather like doing the same, all fight drained from him by the hard look from his coworker.

He… wasn’t the child’s father. This wasn’t his decision to make… even if he thought the whole thing was preposterous.

“Drink your milk.” He said sharply after a minute during which two of the three pouted and their third waited for the argument, round two. At the words, Lexaeus relaxed. Zexion grunted an acknowledgement. Vexen lifted his fork back between narrow fingers. “I do suppose you’ll spend quite some time at the headquarters too, soon enough, what with the summer break and all.” Zexion brightened marginally when Lexaeus agreed.

“I’m sure we’re all looking forward to the time off.”

There was no argument, there.

* * *

Yesterday, Zexion had turned the desk in Lexaeus’ office into a fort, chairs shifted to block the view from the hallway windows, the loveseat’s cushions and throw-blanket cannibalized into a softened floor and canopy overhead. He had rerouted the cord for the lamp, so that it could be propped up in the corner of his little setup, providing light enough to read by. This was allowed for two reasons. One, it was Lexaeus’ office but he was working mostly in the field this week so he didn’t mind it- and two, it kept the boy well occupied for most of the day, which seemed to suit even the stoic boss Leon just fine. 

Some distant part of Zexion realized that ordinary children looked forward to the summertime because of the beach and family trips and days at the park with friends, but the idea caused him little distress. To him, the summertime quickly began to mean several trips to the library a week (even if one of them was for that insufferably boring children’s program), hours of time in the air conditioned Hollow Bastion SCU headquarters with which to spend reading and writing and exploring, quarters for skittles out of the vending machine, and lunches with Lexaeus, Vexen, and sometimes other adults like Yuffie or Cid Highwind. Lunchtime was the best, because if a case was particularly compelling, Yuffie and Vexen would find it next to impossible not to talk about it, and if Zexion was very quiet and very good, they might even forget he was listening. 

One could get _so far_ , if they spoke little and saw much.

Today, Zexion was at Vexen’s heels. Something was going on, something exciting, and he was determined to find out what. The coroner walked briskly, never looking behind him to make sure Zexion was still there, but he didn’t have to. Zexion kept up pace well, through hallways and staircases, into the clinical laboratory to examine the screens mounted on whirring machines and then out again. Vexen was taking notes onto a clipboard, muttering to himself incoherently, and letting out enough sighs to inform anyone who knew him that his frustration was beginning to run away with him. If anything, the reaction only increased Zexion’s desire to know more.

He was so eager he almost collided with the back of the coroner just inside the doorway to the morgue. He immediately took two steps backwards, tilting his head to look up. Vexen had turned to face him, frowning under the bright lights. 

“Zexion,” He sighed. “I’m about to do an autopsy. You should go play somewhere else.” The boy stiffened and scowled. _Play_? He should go _play_ somewhere else? This wasn’t a game to him! (Alright, maybe it was a little- but that didn’t mean he wasn’t willing to take it seriously.) It was a learning opportunity! 

“I’ve been reading about it.” He argued, clasping his small hands in front of him. Vexen could be as frigid as the headquarters’ basement at times, but he had a soft spot for learning, didn’t he? He watched the man frown and falter, and knew he was right. 

“This is a very delicate operation, child.” Vexen explained slowly, glancing away from the boy’s hard stare in response to the babying tone. Zexion stared up at him without blinking, determined, and watched the adult’s own fortitude flicker and fade. “…Fine.” He hissed at last, breaking the heavy silence and turning away. He continued to speak as he readied himself for the procedure. “You will sit in the chair over there-“ He pointed, “-And you will not interrupt my work. I’m recording notes, therefore you must be quite quiet. But…” Hair pinned tightly away from his face and sterile apron tied neatly, Vexen faced Zexion again. There was something almost soft in his piercing eyes, soft for Vexen anyway. It reminded Zexion of fondness, odd as the label was when applied to someone so clearly lacking in empathy. “If you listen carefully, there will be much to learn.”

Zexion smiled unabashedly, nodded quickly, and pushed himself up onto the rolling stool by the writing desk. He shifted in his place as Vexen readied his instruments, propping his feet up on the stool’s rail and leaning forward on his hands for a better look.

The cadaver was uncovered, not terribly mutilated but rather obviously murdered, with two roundish bullet holes in his chest and the trademark grey skin of the deceased. Zexion stared with keen eyes as Vexen took measurements, made early observations into his recorder, and got started. At first, everything was fine. Normal, even, Zexion might say. It wasn’t until the meticulous snapping of bones to open the chest reached his ears and his eyes took in the sight of what laid _inside_ that he even felt the least bit lightheaded.

But then there was red.

_So much red_.

He couldn’t have pinpointed the shift, couldn’t have explained it if he tried, but before he knew it his lungs contracted and froze, leaving him unable to draw breath. His brain buzzed with a hazy irritation and the room began to sway, and then to spin.

All that _red_ … on the scalpel, inside the body… _on the floor on something heavy on his hands-_

_On his-_

_On-_

Then he was floating, sort of. Or maybe he was drowning. Or maybe he was already dead, about to be dissected like the stranger on the metal table. Something in him might have realized that concept ought to terrify, but as quickly as it had come the overwhelming surge of sensation and emotion had already passed, leaving him over-light and empty. Like a ragdoll with all the stuffing pulled out; mentally limp. He felt very little, if anything at all. The biting cold of the room no longer pricked at his bare arms. The shock of hysteria echoed through his brain with a distant clang, like the memory of someone else’s pain- almost like recalling a scary story. He might have _seen_ things in his head, things that weren’t actually there, but he could no longer pinpoint just what they were. 

He didn’t try.

Somehow, despite all else, he knew not to nudge it, and not to pry into places where he might find it.

Maybe there was a monster hiding in his closet?

He didn’t feel the shift of his limbs. It was more like watching it, watching his shaking hands (shaking? But why?) shift from the edge of the stool to the tabletop, pushing him down and onto his feet. His knees gave out under his weight and he stumbled, aware of it only in a dreamlike way, where the cracking of his knees to the sterile tile floor registered more as sound than feeling. Vexen turned, recorder perched between two gloved fingers, no doubt to scold Zexion for moving and distracting him. Zexion didn’t care. He just…

_He needed to leave_.

It was an uncomfortable sort of drive, as desperate as it was possible to feel when one was no more than a ghost, which Zexion knew innately that he was. He pushed to his feet and fought to keep wobbly knees under him. Vexen spoke, but he hardly heard the words. All his brain could register were noises- and they were too sharp and too loud, and they ricocheted through him like tiny shards of ice against his skull. He may have stumbled, or maybe he walked just fine… or maybe he ran… out of the room and into the hallway. He collided with the door to the stairwell. He found the handle with scurrying, unfeeling fingers by sheer luck, and tumbled through the doorway and up.

Zexion watched himself climb, watched an ill-placed sneaker slip from the edge of a step, forgot how to catch himself as he fell. He hit the stairs and rolled, banging both knees, one elbow and his right brow on the way down, scraping both palms on the skid-proofed metal when he came to a stop. He was on his hands and knees then, perched on the stairs near where he’d started. The world was spinning again.

He couldn’t- his mind just wouldn’t-

Sluggishly, it occurred to him that he could see bile on the step just between his skinned hands. He choked, spat, and pushed away and up. Clinging to the railing like a lifeline but feeling as though he had already been washed away to sea, Zexion mounted the stairs again with some difficulty. The ground floor of the building weaved in and out of his line of sight, alternating between inches away from his nose and too far to judge. He didn’t know he’d made it until he was sitting in his blanket fort a mere blink later.

One of his library books was already in his hands, so he opened it, and read.

Except… it wasn’t like reading, really. It wasn’t like reading in exactly the way moving wasn’t like moving, or seeing wasn’t like being awake. He must have been like Alice, down some kind of rabbit hole and into a world where gravity and physics and sane minds don’t function like they should. 

Time didn’t function like it should, either. He was intimately aware of the tick… tick… ticking of the clock on the wall one moment, damaged somehow obviously for it didn’t make sound but every five or six seconds, and the next moment he was on Lexaeus’ desk chair. Vexen was rubbing disinfectant across his palms and covering them with squares of white gauze, while a lady’s voice spoke over his shoulder. Zexion didn’t remember getting there. He watched blankly, forgetting to feel relieved when he realized that the medicine stung, and that his head ached.

The next hour lasted at least a year and a half, while Vexen paced and prattled on to himself until Lexaeus returned from the field. After that, some time passed in a distant blur. The sun came up. Zexion took a bath and brushed his teeth and picked at a bowl of cereal. The sun went down. Zexion tucked himself up in a corner in his bedroom inside a castle of thick-spined books, and stared at pages.

* * *

Lexaeus, to his part, took the incident with less… quietude than his child seemed to. He couldn’t imagine what Vexen could possibly have been _thinking_ , letting a boy so small see a thing like that- but he couldn’t blame the coroner in whole, much as he wanted to. This… He cracked the bedroom door open and peeked inside, frowning deeply to see that Zexion was still awake. Still only reading.

This was not normal. Even for Zexion, this was strange. Children should not react to a fright this way… and as much as the boy played the part and went through the motions after the first few hours or so, Lexaeus couldn’t shake the feeling that something still wasn’t quite _connected_ on the inside. The idea put a black, heavy terror deep inside the man’s chest. He didn’t know what to do. He was sorely underprepared for this. No file of vague half-redacted papers could have described this story. No warnings or hesitations from a social worker could have prepared him. There were no words.

At first he considered calling Ms. Trepe. She was an expert. She was Zexion’s therapist as well as his caseworker. His pride be damned- he would suck up any level of shame at her hand to put this right, to make this fear pass and to get his snarky kid back where this detached boy sat… but in the end he decided against it. She tried. Lexaeus didn’t doubt that anymore. This seemed beyond any of them, though- and the fear of Zexion being removed from the house was greater than any fear the detective had ever known before. So instead he kept close to home, never too far from the boy to hear, and waited.

Vexen brought them dinner the following night, looking almost as pale and tired as Zexion. Lexaeus felt the last of his anger ebb away at the sight of him and invited him inside.

“The makings of tacos.” The coroner explained simply, his voice as sharp and abrupt as ever, but his face contorted into something painful, something like humiliation. “It’s all cooked and ready to go. I even diced the tomatoes.”

“Thanks.” The giant said tiredly, wading himself and Zexion through the meal, then watched the boy float back into his bedroom when he’d finished. Vexen didn’t so much as remind him to be thankful or take a comb to his unruly hair. In fact, his usual knack for filling silences with words felt strained that night. Forced and apprehensive.

“…I’m sorry.” He said only when Zexion’s door was closed, putting the boy more or less out of earshot. Lexaeus stared at him for a long time, eyes locked on uneasily moving eyes. More sincere words had never passed between them. It was possible that more sincere words had never left the coroner’s mouth before this moment. Vexen seemed to have run out of them at long last though. He stared at his hands, folded in front of him, and only frowned.

That was alright. Lexaeus didn’t necessarily need words. He needed something hearty to eat, and the company of someone familiar, and some assurance that this really was something he could do.

Vexen took a seat at the kitchen table, drank coffee with him late into the night, and provided all of these things.

* * *

Later, Zexion would see the error in his lifestyle choices that week. Later. When his mind was clear again and he would realize (with no small amount of embarrassment) just how foggy it had been for those few days. That time had not yet come.

This night, he and Lexaeus had eaten day-old tacos, even though Vexen offered to cook something else when he delivered updated case notes to the apartment door. Zexion was vaguely relieved when Lexaeus declined. He grew tired of noises quicker than ever, feeling like this. Everything was too big and too loud and yet too far away at the same time. It was irritating and exhausting. Existing was exhausting. How simply _existing_ could wear one out when they were little more than a specter was anybody’s guess, but there you have it.

It was nighttime. He could tell because the light coming in through the slats in his blinds was dull, bluish like the streetlamps outside when the atmosphere wanted to rain but couldn’t quite. Zexion was sitting at his desk to read. He didn’t feel terribly much better- though _better_ was an awful adjective for it, really. He hadn’t felt especially _bad_ to begin with; just… different. Muted. He was a picture of himself colored in greyscale. He didn’t feel _right_ , but he was getting used to it, and in adaptation there was normalcy. He was functional… ish.

If he had slept anytime recently he didn’t know it, and his bed was still neatly made from Tuesday morning. What day was it now? The question puzzled him, and the clock on his desk tick… tick… ticked a bit more slowly than it should. He heard a tap on the door and startled, looking up to see Lexaeus peeking through the crack.

Speaking of sleeping, or lack thereof, his caretaker looked nothing short of dismal. He was dark under the eyes and unkempt, hair curled in every direction instead of combed off of his face with gel, and chin sprouting prickles of matching ginger. Zexion knew he’d been working from home, but that didn’t really explain the shift in his appearance. Even the hardest cases didn’t do this to that stone-like man. He studied Zexion, and Zexion stared back. Lexaeus shifted uneasily, not unlike how he had when they held gazes too long when they’d first met. Zexion blinked.

“…Ice cream.” The man said flatly, after a moment. “And _On the Town_.” Zexion blinked again. Lexaeus pushed the door open all the way and gestured for him to follow. The boy obeyed, curling up on his end of their sofa in the living room, socked feet tucked up under him, and watched the man work. He put a movie into the player and brought two already-dished bowls of ice cream in before sitting down on the other end. The one passed to Zexion was mint chocolate-chip. That was his favorite.

Lexaeus pushed _play_ and the classic movie ran. Zexion ate slowly, listened to the quirky musical numbers, and inhaled scents he’d known before but hadn’t noticed in a while. It was soil, the good kind, peppered by the rain and seasoned with something a little bit like cinnamon. It was lavender and honey. It was Lexaeus and himself, the way their home smelled when they were both within it. Zexion breathed slowly, slouching down in his perch. Lexaeus took the bowl from between thin fingers after some time and set it on the coffee table, then took Zexion by the ankles and tugged him gently until he was lying down with his head resting on the couch’s arm. Zexion let him arrange him, and soon felt the blanket that normally lived over the back draped over him instead. It was soft and fuzzy under his fingertips.

He could feel warmth from Lexaeus’ leg against the soles of his feet, could sense him there, watching the film. Zexion’s fingers curled around the blanket and he blinked slowly, watching too. He wouldn’t realize until later, just what this was, but the drifting through space that he felt wasn’t quite like the floating disconnect of the last couple of days. 

With old show tunes in his ears and a calm presence nearby, for the first time in longer than he quite knew, Zexion let his eyes slide closed.

* * *

_The next time he opens them, they meet a curious scene._

_Dimly lit, but it’s clearly a very clean, very decorative kitchen. He is standing in the center of it, between the glistening marble-topped island and the china cabinet against the wall. To his side is a bay window, lace curtains pushed open and a glossy pot of fragrant white flowers rests modestly on the sill- begonias, he recognizes, though he couldn’t explain how. When he looks beyond, he sees nothing his mind can register except that it seems to be very early morning. He can’t see the sun just beginning to creep over the horizon- or a horizon at all for that matter- but the quality of light is soft, greyish, and he knows he’s not wrong. It bathes the spotless surfaces of the room in long shadows, illuminating for his eyes only certain things, random details stark against the pastel fuzz around them. A kettle on the stove, a polished steel refrigerator undecorated by magnets, the round blooms in the pot on the windowsill._

_A room like none he knows, and yet as his gaze trails across foggy details he is overcome by an aching, familiar sadness. As if this place is something from an old dream. A memory of a memory. Something very far away, or perhaps long forgotten. He feels frozen in place, an intruder or maybe just an uneasy guest. There is no one else about, and the silence settling in over him hangs heavy in the empty space. Zexion is very much alone… and yet it seems almost as if he’s been this way before._

_“A place to be alone?” He wonders aloud, but frowns at himself the moment he does. No. No, this is a place that is not empty by design. It’s **bereft**. Lacking entirely of all of the things a kitchen ought to be filled with. Sound, movement, people chattering away or the clinking of utensils on pans, the humming and bubbling of a coffeemaker. Dishes in the sink or cereal boxes on the counters. Scents like food and company, and sensations like a-day-of-baking heat and spices on one’s tongue. _

_Kitchens aren’t meant to be this stark, this sanitized; vacant. Is that what makes him so uneasy?_

_He notes envelopes on the countertop, and is drawn to them on automatic. He hadn’t noticed them before, but now that he has it’s impossible to look away. He lifts them up, flipping through them slowly, even the sound of paper sliding across paper seeming an unwelcome disturbance on the quiet of this place. The third and final one gains his attention. It’s open, torn cleanly across the top. He slides the pages out and unfolds them, eyebrows furrowing._

_The words seem official, a statement of some kind, like a report. Medical? There’s something about it that is distinctly medical, though he couldn’t explain why. He can’t read it. Or, that is to say, there are too many words he doesn’t understand. They blur together, resisting explanation and he feels an equally familiar but less confusing sensation of frustration. How could he not be able to read this? It’s only a piece of paper, only…_

_There is a sound, like a woman’s voice somewhere far away. Zexion startles like a child, hurries to replace the pages into their prison and place the stack of envelopes back on the counter in exactly the position he found them. His heart races in his chest, loud in the hush of the kitchen. There is a male voice now too, speaking to the female, but he understands nothing they say. It’s as if he’s under water, or they are. Garbled, faded._

_It’s all so… so very far away._

_For some reason, Zexion gets the feeling he wants it to stay that way._

* * *


End file.
